Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Dear racist parents
Yes, my fellow parents, at least those of you who happen to be a slight bit racist and I will throw in the insecure fathers out there who are in the process of raising drunken whores with your insane control issues, a little advice, stop it.
Stop being racists. Please. As for the control of your young daughters, I know, it is a fine line we men must walk, wanting to protect our sweet and innocent daughters from teenage boys, those same dangerous and hormonally imbalanced teenage boys that, well, we were once.
I'll get back to the racists in a minute, but let me focus on fathers. I spent a few days this past winter with a wonderfully complex lawyer and we kind of bonded. We were in a far off hotel on business, and during the day we would spend it slowly, painfully slowly, going over the testimony of an elderly man who may or may not have, at one time or another, confronted a pile of Asbestos dust. Oh my is right. One evening we spent having dinner and sharing a bottle of wine. He is the father of two young girls, I am the father of two teenage girls. When I told him that, his eyes lit up and he said something like "that must be tough."
It's not, but I knew what he meant, because we men, we talk in grunts and shrugs and a knowledge that has been passed down from caves. What he meant was, teenage girls in full bloom of impending sexuality are both appealing and appalling. For the average teenage boy, a beautiful girl (and I am blessed with two) can be the most combustable force in the universe. For a father, seeing his baby in a mini-mini skirt, slinking out of the house, saying, "I'll be back later" can mean only one thing, where did I put that shot gun.
As reformed teenage boys, men know what is always on the mind of teenage boys and that is having sex with teenage girls. Some fathers talk about guns and threats and other things, especially with teenage boys in the room, because that is part of our job. The problem is, sometimes that works and the boys follow the rules and sometimes that does not, and the father becomes a grandfather.
Real story; I had a rebuilt British racing green MGB when I was 17. It was the most beautiful sports car I had ever seen, I spent countless hours polishing it, cleaning it, fiddling with the engine so it purred just right. Then one day, I met this incredibly beautiful girl, who went to another high school, who did not know I was sort of a goofball, so she thought I might be smart or something and she agreed to go out. I would pick her up at 7 that night. I knocked on the door, she opened it and introduced me to her dad. He told her she should finish fixing her hair and he had me sit down. I sat on a couch, he sat on an overstuffed chair and went back to drinking a beer and reading the paper. Every now and then he would peer over the top of the paper to look at me. At one point the paper got folded up and this man, a pretty large intimidating man, leaned over to my general direction and asked how I met his daughter. I explained that we had met earlier that day. "You expect to get into her pants?"
So, I grew up kind of naive. I'll be honest, because I am hardly naive anymore it is not so hard to admit that at that time, I was terribly naive. At first, I thought he was asking if I had any plans to actually wear a pair of his daughters pants, which made absolutely no sense to me at all. No, I said, I had no plans whatsoever to get into her pants.
"Let me be clear, you lay one hand on my daughter tonight, and I mean, you touch her for any reason, I will gut you like a trout and your body will be in pieces from her to Santa Barbara."
I think I threw up a little bit in my mouth and my date, right then, walked into the room, looking beautiful and sexy and she said, let's go. Needless to say, much to her amusement, no matter what she did in her teenage girl attempts to let me know that seduction would be appreciated, I did nothing. You have to understand that I wanted to do everything, even the things that I did not even know were possible, but her father made it clear, you touch, you die. So instead, my goal was a touchless date, but not one that would leave her upset so she would go back and tell daddy I was a cad. I dropped her at home and never saw her again.
Insecure fathers have been giving speeches like the one I received for a long time, sometimes men clean guns when young men come to take a girl on a date, or sometimes they lift weights. My lawyer friend said he thought he might have a convoluted contract for them to sign and it really hit me. What are we doing? Isn't this process supposed to be wonderful? Isn't the bloom of dating and nacent sexuality supposed to be a hard enough time on those going through it? The idea that those fathers with their guns and threats feel some sort of dominion over their daughters is not just disgusting, it's depressing.
That said, I do have two dateable daughters. Sometimes I have not met a date at all. Sometimes I have met them and retreated to my studio. Or hosted pizza night. I never did put up the solid dangerous dad persona to try and control the young mans hormonal urges. I always thought that was stupid. I always understood that the young boys hormonal urges are often met with the young girls same urges, which is why sometimes, parents become grandparents long before high school graduation. That did not happen with me, but it has little to do with how clean my gun was when a boy came to take my daughter to a movie.
That is not the crux of this post. Over the last couple of months I have been lucky enough to watch as my oldest daughter prepares to leave for college and every now and then, she would invite a friend over, or friends over, and they would watch television, or hang out outside, or do whatever it is they were doing. See, I trust my daughters, so I stay clear of too much interaction. Then the black boys showed up.
Oh, I could call them African American young men, because they are, but they also happen to be black, and for the sake of me writing this, black is what I will write. Lucky for me in my life I have dated a United Nations of racial types and configurations. I could go down the list, but for a while, I could name countries only by the name of former dates, not by country name. Uganda? Oh you mean Ziggy. Poland? Shartruska. The list is long, impressive and the names are filled with memories and smiles.
Anyway, I met these two young men, they were sitting on my couch, we shook hands, they seemed nice enough. They hung for a while, then everyone disappeared, then the next night they were back and it has been like that for a month or so. I like having them around. They are nice to my dead lesbian dog, and she seems to enjoy their attention. Then I heard how cool I am, because when white parents usually meet them, an order goes out that the daughter can no longer see, date, hang out with "those" guys anymore. I did, I heard that. I think my jaw dropped to the floor. Welcome back to 1950's America.
OK, I did date a United Nations of people, and many of them were different shades than I. After a life of such a palette, it would be the utmost in hypocrisy for me to all of a sudden base distaste on people hanging in my house solely on skin color. Second, these guys are respectful and friendly. Sure, they listen to music I don't like, but every genration pulls that card out of their hat, so I am not going to lose my mind over that one. They seem to groove on my daughter and she likes hanging with them, another plus. So, what am I supposed to find wrong with this picture? Baggy shorts? Really, and this is the point of this all. My fellow parents, stop it.
Stop worrying about your teenage baby doing the exact same things you did. Unless you lived a solitary life in a convent, chances are you snuck out, smoked out, went dancing, did the things your parents forbid you to do, and lived to not tell them about it.
My role model as a father was this brilliant New York Jew. All he wanted from his girls, one of whom I happened to be madly in love with, was honesty. So when the girl I was dating got high on acid, she told her dad. When she was not going to make it home for the weekend because there was some sort of orgy in the works, she told her dad. When her sister came out as a lesbian, she told her dad. See, her dad loved his girls and wanted what was best for them, but he also wanted to know what was really going on in their lives, not the sugar coated version so many people feed their families for fear of judgement or worse. So he got it and without casting a stone, he would offer advice, acid bad, orgies scary (use protection) dyking it up, fine, just get your work done. He remains my father role model.
When his daughter brought home a fierce looking black man as a date one night, Mr. Role Model did not flinch, he did not get a gun and begin to clean it, he sat at the table, shook the mans hand and spoke to him as his equal. Asked about the plan for the night, what sort of car he drove, that sort of thing. No implied threat, nothing. Now, my role model friend was a strong and smart man, so maybe the undercurrent of the conversation was, you do have a car, you do have a job, you are responsible and you will be careful with my daughter - but nothing was said flat out, no threat, nothing.
Which brings me back to the young black teens in my living room. The story they tell is that white parents shun them after meeting solely based on their blackness. The story I told them was I will hold off judging them until I see a little more of who they are underneath their blackness, then we can go from there. I did mention, do not take my cool attitude as permissiveness, I am a dangerous snake when it comes to protecting my daughters and if I must uncoil to attack and protect them, you will not want to be within striking distance. So far, they like me, I like them, even though they are black and I am not. For the other parents judging kids solely on skin color or baggy shorts, run to the store today and buy a god damned mirror because the problem is not who your daughter is introducing you to.
Stop being racists. Please. As for the control of your young daughters, I know, it is a fine line we men must walk, wanting to protect our sweet and innocent daughters from teenage boys, those same dangerous and hormonally imbalanced teenage boys that, well, we were once.
I'll get back to the racists in a minute, but let me focus on fathers. I spent a few days this past winter with a wonderfully complex lawyer and we kind of bonded. We were in a far off hotel on business, and during the day we would spend it slowly, painfully slowly, going over the testimony of an elderly man who may or may not have, at one time or another, confronted a pile of Asbestos dust. Oh my is right. One evening we spent having dinner and sharing a bottle of wine. He is the father of two young girls, I am the father of two teenage girls. When I told him that, his eyes lit up and he said something like "that must be tough."
It's not, but I knew what he meant, because we men, we talk in grunts and shrugs and a knowledge that has been passed down from caves. What he meant was, teenage girls in full bloom of impending sexuality are both appealing and appalling. For the average teenage boy, a beautiful girl (and I am blessed with two) can be the most combustable force in the universe. For a father, seeing his baby in a mini-mini skirt, slinking out of the house, saying, "I'll be back later" can mean only one thing, where did I put that shot gun.
As reformed teenage boys, men know what is always on the mind of teenage boys and that is having sex with teenage girls. Some fathers talk about guns and threats and other things, especially with teenage boys in the room, because that is part of our job. The problem is, sometimes that works and the boys follow the rules and sometimes that does not, and the father becomes a grandfather.
Real story; I had a rebuilt British racing green MGB when I was 17. It was the most beautiful sports car I had ever seen, I spent countless hours polishing it, cleaning it, fiddling with the engine so it purred just right. Then one day, I met this incredibly beautiful girl, who went to another high school, who did not know I was sort of a goofball, so she thought I might be smart or something and she agreed to go out. I would pick her up at 7 that night. I knocked on the door, she opened it and introduced me to her dad. He told her she should finish fixing her hair and he had me sit down. I sat on a couch, he sat on an overstuffed chair and went back to drinking a beer and reading the paper. Every now and then he would peer over the top of the paper to look at me. At one point the paper got folded up and this man, a pretty large intimidating man, leaned over to my general direction and asked how I met his daughter. I explained that we had met earlier that day. "You expect to get into her pants?"
So, I grew up kind of naive. I'll be honest, because I am hardly naive anymore it is not so hard to admit that at that time, I was terribly naive. At first, I thought he was asking if I had any plans to actually wear a pair of his daughters pants, which made absolutely no sense to me at all. No, I said, I had no plans whatsoever to get into her pants.
"Let me be clear, you lay one hand on my daughter tonight, and I mean, you touch her for any reason, I will gut you like a trout and your body will be in pieces from her to Santa Barbara."
I think I threw up a little bit in my mouth and my date, right then, walked into the room, looking beautiful and sexy and she said, let's go. Needless to say, much to her amusement, no matter what she did in her teenage girl attempts to let me know that seduction would be appreciated, I did nothing. You have to understand that I wanted to do everything, even the things that I did not even know were possible, but her father made it clear, you touch, you die. So instead, my goal was a touchless date, but not one that would leave her upset so she would go back and tell daddy I was a cad. I dropped her at home and never saw her again.
Insecure fathers have been giving speeches like the one I received for a long time, sometimes men clean guns when young men come to take a girl on a date, or sometimes they lift weights. My lawyer friend said he thought he might have a convoluted contract for them to sign and it really hit me. What are we doing? Isn't this process supposed to be wonderful? Isn't the bloom of dating and nacent sexuality supposed to be a hard enough time on those going through it? The idea that those fathers with their guns and threats feel some sort of dominion over their daughters is not just disgusting, it's depressing.
That said, I do have two dateable daughters. Sometimes I have not met a date at all. Sometimes I have met them and retreated to my studio. Or hosted pizza night. I never did put up the solid dangerous dad persona to try and control the young mans hormonal urges. I always thought that was stupid. I always understood that the young boys hormonal urges are often met with the young girls same urges, which is why sometimes, parents become grandparents long before high school graduation. That did not happen with me, but it has little to do with how clean my gun was when a boy came to take my daughter to a movie.
That is not the crux of this post. Over the last couple of months I have been lucky enough to watch as my oldest daughter prepares to leave for college and every now and then, she would invite a friend over, or friends over, and they would watch television, or hang out outside, or do whatever it is they were doing. See, I trust my daughters, so I stay clear of too much interaction. Then the black boys showed up.
Oh, I could call them African American young men, because they are, but they also happen to be black, and for the sake of me writing this, black is what I will write. Lucky for me in my life I have dated a United Nations of racial types and configurations. I could go down the list, but for a while, I could name countries only by the name of former dates, not by country name. Uganda? Oh you mean Ziggy. Poland? Shartruska. The list is long, impressive and the names are filled with memories and smiles.
Anyway, I met these two young men, they were sitting on my couch, we shook hands, they seemed nice enough. They hung for a while, then everyone disappeared, then the next night they were back and it has been like that for a month or so. I like having them around. They are nice to my dead lesbian dog, and she seems to enjoy their attention. Then I heard how cool I am, because when white parents usually meet them, an order goes out that the daughter can no longer see, date, hang out with "those" guys anymore. I did, I heard that. I think my jaw dropped to the floor. Welcome back to 1950's America.
OK, I did date a United Nations of people, and many of them were different shades than I. After a life of such a palette, it would be the utmost in hypocrisy for me to all of a sudden base distaste on people hanging in my house solely on skin color. Second, these guys are respectful and friendly. Sure, they listen to music I don't like, but every genration pulls that card out of their hat, so I am not going to lose my mind over that one. They seem to groove on my daughter and she likes hanging with them, another plus. So, what am I supposed to find wrong with this picture? Baggy shorts? Really, and this is the point of this all. My fellow parents, stop it.
Stop worrying about your teenage baby doing the exact same things you did. Unless you lived a solitary life in a convent, chances are you snuck out, smoked out, went dancing, did the things your parents forbid you to do, and lived to not tell them about it.
My role model as a father was this brilliant New York Jew. All he wanted from his girls, one of whom I happened to be madly in love with, was honesty. So when the girl I was dating got high on acid, she told her dad. When she was not going to make it home for the weekend because there was some sort of orgy in the works, she told her dad. When her sister came out as a lesbian, she told her dad. See, her dad loved his girls and wanted what was best for them, but he also wanted to know what was really going on in their lives, not the sugar coated version so many people feed their families for fear of judgement or worse. So he got it and without casting a stone, he would offer advice, acid bad, orgies scary (use protection) dyking it up, fine, just get your work done. He remains my father role model.
When his daughter brought home a fierce looking black man as a date one night, Mr. Role Model did not flinch, he did not get a gun and begin to clean it, he sat at the table, shook the mans hand and spoke to him as his equal. Asked about the plan for the night, what sort of car he drove, that sort of thing. No implied threat, nothing. Now, my role model friend was a strong and smart man, so maybe the undercurrent of the conversation was, you do have a car, you do have a job, you are responsible and you will be careful with my daughter - but nothing was said flat out, no threat, nothing.
Which brings me back to the young black teens in my living room. The story they tell is that white parents shun them after meeting solely based on their blackness. The story I told them was I will hold off judging them until I see a little more of who they are underneath their blackness, then we can go from there. I did mention, do not take my cool attitude as permissiveness, I am a dangerous snake when it comes to protecting my daughters and if I must uncoil to attack and protect them, you will not want to be within striking distance. So far, they like me, I like them, even though they are black and I am not. For the other parents judging kids solely on skin color or baggy shorts, run to the store today and buy a god damned mirror because the problem is not who your daughter is introducing you to.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The perfect ass
I was sitting with a young woman last night at the airport, waiting for my youngest child to arrive when a beautiful woman and her dorky boyfriend decided that, after prancing around the waiting area to garner as much attention as possible, they should light right in front of our field of vision.
Now, this, for me at least, was not the worst thing that could have happened. My friend sitting next to me had already commented on the lack of coverage of the young woman's back side. As she lolly gagged around the baggage claim area, it was almost as if she was wearing a skimpy pair of underwear and she was incredibly proud of that fact. My young friend was the first to say something, but once I noticed, it was kind of hard to stop noticing. She really did not leave a great deal to the imagination. Which can sometimes be a good thing.
When they stopped about ten feet in front of us I was really impressed with her butt. It was just about as perfect as any butt I have seen in a long time. Good for you I thought, if you have such a perfect butt, and the weather is what it is, why not share it with the world. Then I looked at the weak and pale man with her, unhealthy appearing in almost all ways, wearing shorts that were too long, hanging loosely over skinny pale little legs and then the requisite black socks with his ultra white tennis shoes, it was not pretty. They seemed to enjoy one anothers company, so that was even better, for them at least.
The young woman I was with was forced to listen to me try and figure out the relationship. Beautiful hot woman, nerdy guy. Must be a doctor or lawyer, she just shook her head. "I mean, look at her and then look at him." She did, we both did. The conversation continued in that way for a few minutes. I had seen these sorts of odd pairings before, a temptress and her prey, something like that. They may have been the same age, but she was clearly out of his league. Pittsburgh is not known for the beautiful women, they are few and far between, she would be noticed.
Right about then one of the most beautiful woman in the world swept by, as she walked over to pick up her bag. Gray hair floating in all directions, baggy jeans, barely covering some sort of odd colored Converse low top shoes, a comfortable and loose blouse, unbuttoned, with a cotton t-shirt underneath. I said to my friend, look at her, that is real beauty. I think she thought I was nuts, but it was true. The most beautiful woman in teh world strode with purpose, but also with a sense of joy. She was light on her feet, she seemed to have a smile ready to burst out of her tanned mouth and she had just the right amount of wrinkles around her eyes to let the world know that she was someone who looks at others with intensity, and also smiles a lot.
Ten feet in front of us, we had this beautiful body, but she came off as completely insecure and in need of attention, constantly. They could have sat down, they could have found a quiet place to chat, or make out, or something young couples should be doing. Instead, this woman in hardly there shorts had some inner need to show off what was a just about perfect back side. Then again, the need to show that off to a group of complete and mostly disinterested strangers really does ring of desperation. On the other hand, an older woman, striding purposefully through the terminal, dressed in what appeared to be incredibly comfortable natural fabrics, looking fit and healthy not only caught my attention, but immediately made me forget the perfect ass not 10 feet in front of me.
Funny how that works.
Now, this, for me at least, was not the worst thing that could have happened. My friend sitting next to me had already commented on the lack of coverage of the young woman's back side. As she lolly gagged around the baggage claim area, it was almost as if she was wearing a skimpy pair of underwear and she was incredibly proud of that fact. My young friend was the first to say something, but once I noticed, it was kind of hard to stop noticing. She really did not leave a great deal to the imagination. Which can sometimes be a good thing.
When they stopped about ten feet in front of us I was really impressed with her butt. It was just about as perfect as any butt I have seen in a long time. Good for you I thought, if you have such a perfect butt, and the weather is what it is, why not share it with the world. Then I looked at the weak and pale man with her, unhealthy appearing in almost all ways, wearing shorts that were too long, hanging loosely over skinny pale little legs and then the requisite black socks with his ultra white tennis shoes, it was not pretty. They seemed to enjoy one anothers company, so that was even better, for them at least.
The young woman I was with was forced to listen to me try and figure out the relationship. Beautiful hot woman, nerdy guy. Must be a doctor or lawyer, she just shook her head. "I mean, look at her and then look at him." She did, we both did. The conversation continued in that way for a few minutes. I had seen these sorts of odd pairings before, a temptress and her prey, something like that. They may have been the same age, but she was clearly out of his league. Pittsburgh is not known for the beautiful women, they are few and far between, she would be noticed.
Right about then one of the most beautiful woman in the world swept by, as she walked over to pick up her bag. Gray hair floating in all directions, baggy jeans, barely covering some sort of odd colored Converse low top shoes, a comfortable and loose blouse, unbuttoned, with a cotton t-shirt underneath. I said to my friend, look at her, that is real beauty. I think she thought I was nuts, but it was true. The most beautiful woman in teh world strode with purpose, but also with a sense of joy. She was light on her feet, she seemed to have a smile ready to burst out of her tanned mouth and she had just the right amount of wrinkles around her eyes to let the world know that she was someone who looks at others with intensity, and also smiles a lot.
Ten feet in front of us, we had this beautiful body, but she came off as completely insecure and in need of attention, constantly. They could have sat down, they could have found a quiet place to chat, or make out, or something young couples should be doing. Instead, this woman in hardly there shorts had some inner need to show off what was a just about perfect back side. Then again, the need to show that off to a group of complete and mostly disinterested strangers really does ring of desperation. On the other hand, an older woman, striding purposefully through the terminal, dressed in what appeared to be incredibly comfortable natural fabrics, looking fit and healthy not only caught my attention, but immediately made me forget the perfect ass not 10 feet in front of me.
Funny how that works.
Pot, trannies and pizza - oh my
I had a glass of wine on the nightstand next to the bed. The room smelled vaguely of pot and cigarettes. I laid back, the heat enveloping me like an unwanted body condom.
The phone rang.
I could almost sense it was Houdini, my old friend, a person who knows everything there is to know about me, but never pays attention to the details.
“You will never guess where I am.”
“OK.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously.”
“On a plane.”
“That would not have been my guess.”
“I know, right? So, about your room.”
“What about my room?”
“I was there earlier, you were not, we stayed for a bit, then we left.”
“You were here? In my room?”
“You said it smelled of pot and cigarettes.”
“I wrote that, yes, but it does. Then again, strangely enough, this entire house has taken on the allure of a cheap bordello.”
“You make that sound so, I don’t know, dirty.”
“Not at all. Lived in, I guess. Why were you here.”
“Horny.”
“What?”
“We were in the neighborhood.”
“When you say we.”
“Well, I mean we. I’ve been seeing someone.”
“I could page back in my own blog, a month or so ago, you thought you may have impregnated a transsexual.”
“That’s not exactly true. Transvestite, not transsexual.”
“Oh, right, I forgot the details. You were actually admitting at the time that not only had you not bothered to notice your love making partners male pieces, but you were actually stupid enough to think that having sex with anything looking vaguely like a woman could indeed lead to pregnancy.”
“And I stand by that belief.”
“Amazing.”
“Thank you. And to clear things up, I was not with that train wreck today.”
“Oh I would imagine you have found yourself a whole new sort of train wreck to get all sexy time with. In my bed, yes?”
“Well, we were in your house. By the way, what happened to the weight room?”
“I’m painting, I needed the space.”
“Painting, my lord, I thought the dog got sick. Seriously. No, I think the dog got sick, while we were there. She threw up.”
“Did you clean it?”
“God no. We were wrecking your bed.”
“Seriously?”
“No, I mean, I don’t think we damaged anything.”
“The room reeks of pot and cigarettes.”
“I know, right.”
“So why’re you in a plane?”
“Oh, not just any plane, a fighter jet.”
“Seriously? On a clandestine mission of some sort.”
“Of some sort. Sure.”
“Seriously?”
“Fuck no, last time the general sent me out for pizza.”
“No way. A general can send a fighter jet out for pizza?”
“A general asks for something, general gets what he asks for.”
“I really should have stayed in the air force.”
“I did not know you when you were in the air force.”
“Long time ago.”
“I’d imagine.”
“So, who’s the girl?”
“The one in your bed?”
“Well, she’s not in my bed now, right?”
“No, I would not do that to you. I get what your thing is.”
“No clue what that means. So, let’s start with basics, under the hood, she got a factory installed vagina?”
“Hey, that’s funny.”
“I see, no answer. She have a name?”
“Yeah, Beth.”
“Dude, that’s fucked up. My dead dog is named Beth. She’s a lesbian.”
“OK. Well, clearly, I am not dating your dead lesbian dog. I mean, what does she look like, just so I can be clear.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“In your opinion.”
“So, there must be a reason we are having a conversation.”
“I thought you would be interested in my newer relationship.”
“Why? Have you ever taken an interest in mine? You did not even go to my wedding.”
“You were married?”
“You did not know that?”
“Man or woman?”
“Seriously?”
“One never knows.”
“I was married before the gays were getting married.”
“So maybe you were a trailblazer. What was his name?”
“He was a woman. You were at the wedding.”
“When was this?”
“Long time ago.”
“Well then, who the fuck cares.”
“I agree.”
“You still married?”
“Are you high?”
“Little bit, but I am also prepping to fly.”
“Right. No, I am engaged.”
“Man or woman?”
“Seriously, same joke, still not funny.”
“I note for the readers you did not answer.”
“Point taken.”
“So tell me about the floozy.”
“Beth? Well, a huge step up from the non-pregnant tranny, that much is a given.”
“Of course, I mean, nothing against trannies, you know me, but still, hard to imagine a pregnant tranny.”
“Imagine my shock and awe. But no, Beth is all woman, all as far as I can tell.”
“And I am guessing you did some sort of inspection.”
“That I did.”
“Good, because after the pregnant tranny scare, one would think you might want to check who you are sexual with.”
“One would think.”
“Did you say you were getting married?”
“I did.”
“Weird. Why?”
“I’m the marrying type. The big question is, why aren’t you married?”
“I am.”
“Are not.”
“Am too. Got married, what is it? About 15 years ago, some chick in Florida, I think her name is Linda, or Carol.”
“What does Linda/Carol think about Beth, who’s most certainly not my dead lesbian dog, but has no problem smoking pot in my bedroom and having sex with a deranged pilot.”
“Not sure, we have not talked since the wedding night.”
“Probably a smart move. Heck, I’d probably still be married if I’d done that.”
“Most people would be happier this way.”
“Sure enough.”
“Hang on. Hey I have to fly to Atlanta to pick up some pizza, you need anything?”
“From Atlanta? No.”
Then the phone went dead.
The phone rang.
I could almost sense it was Houdini, my old friend, a person who knows everything there is to know about me, but never pays attention to the details.
“You will never guess where I am.”
“OK.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously.”
“On a plane.”
“That would not have been my guess.”
“I know, right? So, about your room.”
“What about my room?”
“I was there earlier, you were not, we stayed for a bit, then we left.”
“You were here? In my room?”
“You said it smelled of pot and cigarettes.”
“I wrote that, yes, but it does. Then again, strangely enough, this entire house has taken on the allure of a cheap bordello.”
“You make that sound so, I don’t know, dirty.”
“Not at all. Lived in, I guess. Why were you here.”
“Horny.”
“What?”
“We were in the neighborhood.”
“When you say we.”
“Well, I mean we. I’ve been seeing someone.”
“I could page back in my own blog, a month or so ago, you thought you may have impregnated a transsexual.”
“That’s not exactly true. Transvestite, not transsexual.”
“Oh, right, I forgot the details. You were actually admitting at the time that not only had you not bothered to notice your love making partners male pieces, but you were actually stupid enough to think that having sex with anything looking vaguely like a woman could indeed lead to pregnancy.”
“And I stand by that belief.”
“Amazing.”
“Thank you. And to clear things up, I was not with that train wreck today.”
“Oh I would imagine you have found yourself a whole new sort of train wreck to get all sexy time with. In my bed, yes?”
“Well, we were in your house. By the way, what happened to the weight room?”
“I’m painting, I needed the space.”
“Painting, my lord, I thought the dog got sick. Seriously. No, I think the dog got sick, while we were there. She threw up.”
“Did you clean it?”
“God no. We were wrecking your bed.”
“Seriously?”
“No, I mean, I don’t think we damaged anything.”
“The room reeks of pot and cigarettes.”
“I know, right.”
“So why’re you in a plane?”
“Oh, not just any plane, a fighter jet.”
“Seriously? On a clandestine mission of some sort.”
“Of some sort. Sure.”
“Seriously?”
“Fuck no, last time the general sent me out for pizza.”
“No way. A general can send a fighter jet out for pizza?”
“A general asks for something, general gets what he asks for.”
“I really should have stayed in the air force.”
“I did not know you when you were in the air force.”
“Long time ago.”
“I’d imagine.”
“So, who’s the girl?”
“The one in your bed?”
“Well, she’s not in my bed now, right?”
“No, I would not do that to you. I get what your thing is.”
“No clue what that means. So, let’s start with basics, under the hood, she got a factory installed vagina?”
“Hey, that’s funny.”
“I see, no answer. She have a name?”
“Yeah, Beth.”
“Dude, that’s fucked up. My dead dog is named Beth. She’s a lesbian.”
“OK. Well, clearly, I am not dating your dead lesbian dog. I mean, what does she look like, just so I can be clear.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“In your opinion.”
“So, there must be a reason we are having a conversation.”
“I thought you would be interested in my newer relationship.”
“Why? Have you ever taken an interest in mine? You did not even go to my wedding.”
“You were married?”
“You did not know that?”
“Man or woman?”
“Seriously?”
“One never knows.”
“I was married before the gays were getting married.”
“So maybe you were a trailblazer. What was his name?”
“He was a woman. You were at the wedding.”
“When was this?”
“Long time ago.”
“Well then, who the fuck cares.”
“I agree.”
“You still married?”
“Are you high?”
“Little bit, but I am also prepping to fly.”
“Right. No, I am engaged.”
“Man or woman?”
“Seriously, same joke, still not funny.”
“I note for the readers you did not answer.”
“Point taken.”
“So tell me about the floozy.”
“Beth? Well, a huge step up from the non-pregnant tranny, that much is a given.”
“Of course, I mean, nothing against trannies, you know me, but still, hard to imagine a pregnant tranny.”
“Imagine my shock and awe. But no, Beth is all woman, all as far as I can tell.”
“And I am guessing you did some sort of inspection.”
“That I did.”
“Good, because after the pregnant tranny scare, one would think you might want to check who you are sexual with.”
“One would think.”
“Did you say you were getting married?”
“I did.”
“Weird. Why?”
“I’m the marrying type. The big question is, why aren’t you married?”
“I am.”
“Are not.”
“Am too. Got married, what is it? About 15 years ago, some chick in Florida, I think her name is Linda, or Carol.”
“What does Linda/Carol think about Beth, who’s most certainly not my dead lesbian dog, but has no problem smoking pot in my bedroom and having sex with a deranged pilot.”
“Not sure, we have not talked since the wedding night.”
“Probably a smart move. Heck, I’d probably still be married if I’d done that.”
“Most people would be happier this way.”
“Sure enough.”
“Hang on. Hey I have to fly to Atlanta to pick up some pizza, you need anything?”
“From Atlanta? No.”
Then the phone went dead.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Debt ceiling
If I was the president:
I would immediately use the 14th amendment and raise the debt ceiling, go on national television and tell the American people that "neither the democrats or republicans have the time or the balls to come up with a real plan that will raise the debt ceiling and cut spending. Crisis solved, if the posturing politicians in both houses and of both parties are serious about cutting spending, go for it. By my decisive action, I have averted a major economic meltdown, so now these blowhards can continue to talk until the cows come home."
He might also want to take a moment and remind the American people that while GW Bush inherited a surplus, he inherited the biggest debt in this countries history and the second worst economy in American history, and almost immediately he was met with republicans who negotiated in bad faith on every major piece of important legislation and then, having won idiotic concessions, voted no on the reforms they fought for.
Then he might want to mention that not since the 60's has any president been able to get the sort of healthcare reform passed as he was able to push through.
He might wink at the camera and then say, "You know my fellow Americans, Bill Clinton tried and I am sure he did his best, and George Bush spent trillions of our countries wealth trying, but it was on my watch, with my leadership that Osama Bin Laden ended up buried at sea. Let the politicians of both parties bicker, but things need to get done and I am the president who is not afraid to kick some ass. Now if you will excuse me, I have a family that loves me. God Bless this country, but maybe not the old white men in cheap suits who banter about the congress with promises they have no intention of keeping."
I would immediately use the 14th amendment and raise the debt ceiling, go on national television and tell the American people that "neither the democrats or republicans have the time or the balls to come up with a real plan that will raise the debt ceiling and cut spending. Crisis solved, if the posturing politicians in both houses and of both parties are serious about cutting spending, go for it. By my decisive action, I have averted a major economic meltdown, so now these blowhards can continue to talk until the cows come home."
He might also want to take a moment and remind the American people that while GW Bush inherited a surplus, he inherited the biggest debt in this countries history and the second worst economy in American history, and almost immediately he was met with republicans who negotiated in bad faith on every major piece of important legislation and then, having won idiotic concessions, voted no on the reforms they fought for.
Then he might want to mention that not since the 60's has any president been able to get the sort of healthcare reform passed as he was able to push through.
He might wink at the camera and then say, "You know my fellow Americans, Bill Clinton tried and I am sure he did his best, and George Bush spent trillions of our countries wealth trying, but it was on my watch, with my leadership that Osama Bin Laden ended up buried at sea. Let the politicians of both parties bicker, but things need to get done and I am the president who is not afraid to kick some ass. Now if you will excuse me, I have a family that loves me. God Bless this country, but maybe not the old white men in cheap suits who banter about the congress with promises they have no intention of keeping."
The compromise
I am sitting in a room that feels comfortable. This is the former one bedroom apartment on the third floor of my house. When I bought this old place, I turned this into my bedroom. It has old wood floors, a couple of windows that look down onto the street and a window on either side that look onto neighbors rooftops. It can be seductively quiet up here, miles above the ghetto opera that takes place down below my windows.
Last year about this time I removed years of old paint and wallpaper and got the old plaster looking spiffy. I left the wood floors alone, enjoying the look of years of quiet use. There is a tiny bathroom up here, I dragged a claw foot tub up, added black and white tile to the floor, a new small cabinet with sink and the tiny bathroom became a haven on cold winter nights. It's kind of amazing what happens in a small room, with a hot bath and a single candle.
Over this past winter I removed all the stuff from my bedroom, except the bed. Once I got rid of the bookcase and computer table, the chair and the end table, the room looked large and empty, which was kind of nice. The walls were a light gray and I started hanging art. I have a lot of art; friends, gifts from friends and lovers, people I have interviewed and work I have purchased. I started hanging work in the alcove and near the windows, I moved the bed into a cave-like corner, but surrounded it with bright and beautiful pieces, so it was inviting and fun.
I was thinking recently of my favorite bed. It was actually a couch, which is technically not a bed at all, but if you think about it, a bed really is whatever we decide to make it. I have used many a car seat as a bed, a blanket can make a wonderful bed when placed delicately on a beach, I slept on a street in Berlin, which was my bed for six hours, when I was terribly sick a few years ago I used to pass out on Seattle streets for hours at a time, bed like conditions. A bed is a bed. The best bed of my life was an old green brocade couch, solid, probably 15 years old when I bought it at a thrift store in Ventura California. A friend lent me his truck, I brought it to my parents house, dragged it into my bedroom and took a nap. For about six months, that couch was my bed, and for the rest of my life, I will be in search of a bed as comfortable as that couch.
I am now surrounded by beautiful art in my bedroom, art I love. It's got me thinking about compromises people make in bedrooms. I dated this actress in LA before I went back to college in New York. She was good to go, a wild streak that was as wide as Sunset Boulevard. Her parents were boozers, her dad, a one legged piano player who, as the night wore on and he got drunker, would get bawdier and bawdier at the piano, inging songs about whores and the things their bodies could do. It was a sight. Around that time I got a job with an opera company in Long Beach and I was working on the sets in an old abandoned movie theatre. During a break a friend and I stumbled upon a couple of boxes of folded up old movie posters. We put them in my car and when I got back to my apartment, I went about plastering my bedroom wall with classic posters from the top movies from the 60's and 70's. I was in my early 20's and my bedroom was by far the most amazing bedroom in the history of the world. When my actress girlfriend saw it that night, she was appalled and made sure I understood that I was apparently a 13 year old nerd.
The posters disappeared soon after. So did she.
I think we need art to remind us that beauty is attainable. The great thing about art is that we almost always get to define it for ourselves. Or sure, there are these self important bloated intellectuals who will spew words of wisdom and stuff, but really, often times, what it comes down to is art has the same Supreme Court definition as does porn, I may not be able to describe it, but I know it when I see it.
When I first moved to Seattle I found myself walking past a gallery late one night. There was a small party inside, and there was rain outside, so soon enough I was inside, pretending to belong, enjoying the art with my glass of wine and look of distinction. A man approached and asked if there was any piece in particular that I liked, we walked a few feet and then I accidentally fell in love. On my right, previously out of my vision, was a fairly large canvas, seemingly four patterns emerging, each one trying to tell a detailed story of some sort. I was entangled in the first quadrant when I noticed the envelope in the bottom corner, was that really an envelope. I kept looking, things that made sense at first, started to not make sense at all. A man looking out a window became a prisoner committing suicide in his jail cell. As I stepped back, I was blown away by how much information I felt coming at me, messages and images all hitting my cerebral cortex at the same time, lighting my brain on fire. It was love and it felt good.
"That one is 750. It's kind of great," the man, who I guess was attached to the gallery in some way, said to me.
"Yeah, it is," I stammered. At the time, 750 was three months rent. 750 would have purchased me a car, if I could have purchased a car. 750 would have bought be 10 bikes. That much made sense. I looked at that painting like a lover I knew I needed, but one that did not notice me. I finished my wine and left.
Ten years later I was taking part in an open studio tour in the old Rainier Brewing building in the Georgetown area of Seattle. At that time I was, I am searching for the right term here, hectic. Hectic is a good word, maybe impatient, I was hectic and impatient. Probably in need of rehab of some sort. I finished whatever it was I was doing and I walked around the various studios in the complex and a name on a door caught my eye. I am not sure why it did, but when I saw it I instinctively walked to the door and knocked, a voice inside said come in. A young looking man, in great physical shape and with a mop of bright red hair came walking up and extended his hand. He said his name, which was the name on the door and I explained to him that many years before, I had stumbled into a gallery and I had fallen in love with one of his paintings.
I am not sure how long we talked. I know we went to dinner, we both rode bicycles to Ballard and ate at a communal Mexican restaurant. We rode back, stopping on Capitol Hill for a beer at The Comet and walking around Cal Anderson Park, talking about the trajectory of satellites and proper hair care.
On the wall of my bedroom, opposite my bed, a place I look at whenever I wake up, is that painting from that gallery, from that artist I met a long time ago.
Which is why I think about the compromises we make in bedrooms, because for many years this painting that I love and that inspires me with passion and wisdom, has been stored on a wall in a dining room I rarely even enter. Only after my winter of disconnect did I think to move it up to my bedroom and allow it to overtake me again. I had compromised my own love of this artwork for fear of alienating whatever psychopathic lover I was probably dining with.
That in itself is a problem, because one should spend as little time dining with psychopaths as possible. The other problem, the real trouble, is allowing compromises in a bedroom that take away from ones own passion. When you think about the time we spend in our bedrooms, sleep time, love time, reading time, resting time, even writing blog post times, we spend a lot of time in our respective bedrooms and to not have it be comfortable and enticing and full of wonder and delight seems like a waste.
Removing the stuff from the room was the first step. Emptying the room of all the books and junk that seemed to be filling the space allowed me to understand what I had to work with. It also cleared all the walls and helped me to realize that this space, these walls that are mine, needed to be a place that I would feel comfortable and respected. A space to call my own and a place that spoke to me in a language I understood and for me, beautiful art touches me in a way that nothing else does.
Last year about this time I removed years of old paint and wallpaper and got the old plaster looking spiffy. I left the wood floors alone, enjoying the look of years of quiet use. There is a tiny bathroom up here, I dragged a claw foot tub up, added black and white tile to the floor, a new small cabinet with sink and the tiny bathroom became a haven on cold winter nights. It's kind of amazing what happens in a small room, with a hot bath and a single candle.
Over this past winter I removed all the stuff from my bedroom, except the bed. Once I got rid of the bookcase and computer table, the chair and the end table, the room looked large and empty, which was kind of nice. The walls were a light gray and I started hanging art. I have a lot of art; friends, gifts from friends and lovers, people I have interviewed and work I have purchased. I started hanging work in the alcove and near the windows, I moved the bed into a cave-like corner, but surrounded it with bright and beautiful pieces, so it was inviting and fun.
I was thinking recently of my favorite bed. It was actually a couch, which is technically not a bed at all, but if you think about it, a bed really is whatever we decide to make it. I have used many a car seat as a bed, a blanket can make a wonderful bed when placed delicately on a beach, I slept on a street in Berlin, which was my bed for six hours, when I was terribly sick a few years ago I used to pass out on Seattle streets for hours at a time, bed like conditions. A bed is a bed. The best bed of my life was an old green brocade couch, solid, probably 15 years old when I bought it at a thrift store in Ventura California. A friend lent me his truck, I brought it to my parents house, dragged it into my bedroom and took a nap. For about six months, that couch was my bed, and for the rest of my life, I will be in search of a bed as comfortable as that couch.
I am now surrounded by beautiful art in my bedroom, art I love. It's got me thinking about compromises people make in bedrooms. I dated this actress in LA before I went back to college in New York. She was good to go, a wild streak that was as wide as Sunset Boulevard. Her parents were boozers, her dad, a one legged piano player who, as the night wore on and he got drunker, would get bawdier and bawdier at the piano, inging songs about whores and the things their bodies could do. It was a sight. Around that time I got a job with an opera company in Long Beach and I was working on the sets in an old abandoned movie theatre. During a break a friend and I stumbled upon a couple of boxes of folded up old movie posters. We put them in my car and when I got back to my apartment, I went about plastering my bedroom wall with classic posters from the top movies from the 60's and 70's. I was in my early 20's and my bedroom was by far the most amazing bedroom in the history of the world. When my actress girlfriend saw it that night, she was appalled and made sure I understood that I was apparently a 13 year old nerd.
The posters disappeared soon after. So did she.
I think we need art to remind us that beauty is attainable. The great thing about art is that we almost always get to define it for ourselves. Or sure, there are these self important bloated intellectuals who will spew words of wisdom and stuff, but really, often times, what it comes down to is art has the same Supreme Court definition as does porn, I may not be able to describe it, but I know it when I see it.
When I first moved to Seattle I found myself walking past a gallery late one night. There was a small party inside, and there was rain outside, so soon enough I was inside, pretending to belong, enjoying the art with my glass of wine and look of distinction. A man approached and asked if there was any piece in particular that I liked, we walked a few feet and then I accidentally fell in love. On my right, previously out of my vision, was a fairly large canvas, seemingly four patterns emerging, each one trying to tell a detailed story of some sort. I was entangled in the first quadrant when I noticed the envelope in the bottom corner, was that really an envelope. I kept looking, things that made sense at first, started to not make sense at all. A man looking out a window became a prisoner committing suicide in his jail cell. As I stepped back, I was blown away by how much information I felt coming at me, messages and images all hitting my cerebral cortex at the same time, lighting my brain on fire. It was love and it felt good.
"That one is 750. It's kind of great," the man, who I guess was attached to the gallery in some way, said to me.
"Yeah, it is," I stammered. At the time, 750 was three months rent. 750 would have purchased me a car, if I could have purchased a car. 750 would have bought be 10 bikes. That much made sense. I looked at that painting like a lover I knew I needed, but one that did not notice me. I finished my wine and left.
Ten years later I was taking part in an open studio tour in the old Rainier Brewing building in the Georgetown area of Seattle. At that time I was, I am searching for the right term here, hectic. Hectic is a good word, maybe impatient, I was hectic and impatient. Probably in need of rehab of some sort. I finished whatever it was I was doing and I walked around the various studios in the complex and a name on a door caught my eye. I am not sure why it did, but when I saw it I instinctively walked to the door and knocked, a voice inside said come in. A young looking man, in great physical shape and with a mop of bright red hair came walking up and extended his hand. He said his name, which was the name on the door and I explained to him that many years before, I had stumbled into a gallery and I had fallen in love with one of his paintings.
I am not sure how long we talked. I know we went to dinner, we both rode bicycles to Ballard and ate at a communal Mexican restaurant. We rode back, stopping on Capitol Hill for a beer at The Comet and walking around Cal Anderson Park, talking about the trajectory of satellites and proper hair care.
On the wall of my bedroom, opposite my bed, a place I look at whenever I wake up, is that painting from that gallery, from that artist I met a long time ago.
Which is why I think about the compromises we make in bedrooms, because for many years this painting that I love and that inspires me with passion and wisdom, has been stored on a wall in a dining room I rarely even enter. Only after my winter of disconnect did I think to move it up to my bedroom and allow it to overtake me again. I had compromised my own love of this artwork for fear of alienating whatever psychopathic lover I was probably dining with.
That in itself is a problem, because one should spend as little time dining with psychopaths as possible. The other problem, the real trouble, is allowing compromises in a bedroom that take away from ones own passion. When you think about the time we spend in our bedrooms, sleep time, love time, reading time, resting time, even writing blog post times, we spend a lot of time in our respective bedrooms and to not have it be comfortable and enticing and full of wonder and delight seems like a waste.
Removing the stuff from the room was the first step. Emptying the room of all the books and junk that seemed to be filling the space allowed me to understand what I had to work with. It also cleared all the walls and helped me to realize that this space, these walls that are mine, needed to be a place that I would feel comfortable and respected. A space to call my own and a place that spoke to me in a language I understood and for me, beautiful art touches me in a way that nothing else does.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Blog up
Sometimes I guest blog for these other blogs. Sometimes it's OK. Sometimes it's not. I am subscribed to some email service or something, I get offers and stuff. What I try not to do is get anyone to guest blog here, because, well, fuck if I know, damn, what a stupid moron I turn out to be. I have been brain dead for weeks and I could have just advertised on those damn email shit letters I always get, have some bonehead in Austin step in for a while and just nap.
I really need to start drinking again.
Anyway, in these emails there are always tips on making your blog more blog worthy and when it gets down to it, that is something everyone should strive for, I know I do.
What tip I always see, predictability. Readers like to know what to expect. I was thinking about that, because I am a reader, I read all sorts of things, and it dawned on me, I hardly ever know what to expect, that's why I continue to read. If I got all the information in the first paragraph, why go on?
But, as I have sorely learned in the past couple of months, there really are people who know things that I just do not know.
So, readers, coming up, and believe me, telling your readers what to expect is a big part of keeping readers coming back. Jesus, I really should unsubscribe to that shit blogging email service. Because telling your readers of a new post and what to expect in it is something that keeps readers "interested."
Coming up this week. I hate this. I really do.
Compromise in the bedroom.
Houdini, pot, wine and cigarettes.
I really need to start drinking again.
Anyway, in these emails there are always tips on making your blog more blog worthy and when it gets down to it, that is something everyone should strive for, I know I do.
What tip I always see, predictability. Readers like to know what to expect. I was thinking about that, because I am a reader, I read all sorts of things, and it dawned on me, I hardly ever know what to expect, that's why I continue to read. If I got all the information in the first paragraph, why go on?
But, as I have sorely learned in the past couple of months, there really are people who know things that I just do not know.
So, readers, coming up, and believe me, telling your readers what to expect is a big part of keeping readers coming back. Jesus, I really should unsubscribe to that shit blogging email service. Because telling your readers of a new post and what to expect in it is something that keeps readers "interested."
Coming up this week. I hate this. I really do.
Compromise in the bedroom.
Houdini, pot, wine and cigarettes.
I am not a whore
I have never run for political office. I am not sure why, because I have often thought that I would like to give back to my community and as a journalist I have covered public meetings and interviewed many politicians and for the most part, I have always walked away thinking they seemed like nice enough people.
While working in New York I interviewed former governor Mario Cuomo a few times and every time I left thinking he was a pretty smart man. I did not always agree with him, but then again, I do not always agree with anyone, so that should have been expected. I interviewed senator Al Gore before he became Vice President, I believe he was running for president at the time. He was earnest and kind of sweet, but also, especially back then, stiff and uncomfortable. I interviewed many politicians who hated me just because I had a microphone, which was something I never understood. See, I did not take sides, I did not have an agenda, I was always just looking for an interview.
For one candidate running for senator in Alaska, before we started, I tried to give him some interview tips, because he was young and inexperienced, I thought I could help him come across better. I told him how Governor Cuomo would intently listen to the question and take his time, in silence, to think of a proper response, and then he would answer the question, even if the silence had lasted 30 seconds. He knew the media would edit out the dead air. I told this senate candidate that story to calm him down and let him know that I would edit out the time he would take to think, so as not to let him sound like someone who does not have answers. He seemed to get it.
Then the interview started, not live, but recorded, so I could repair it if he was awkward. He was far worse that awkward. First, he did not take my advice at all. After every question, he would race to answer, without thinking, pausing or contemplating anything. His answers were jumbled and sometimes he would veer off the topic, going back to a previous question to clear up something, then trying to get back to the question at hand, and then saying the word "ah" or "um" as if that was some sort of intellectual qualifier.
The interview in raw form was a complete disaster. So I spent hours editing it. This was pre-digital editing, so every part of the interview had to be hand edited on tape, cut and spliced. I decided I would remove all the ums and uhs and try to make him come across like he did not sound like a bumbling idiot. He was, by the way, not a bumbling idiot. He was a right wing, republican. He was also a fisherman, a family man and a very nice guy. I liked him, as I liked most of the politicians I met in Alaska.
In the end, his interview sounded a lot better on the air than it did in person. I sent him a copy of it along with a small baggy of pieces of tape, a lot of pieces of tape. In fact, there were hundreds of ums and uhs that I had edited and saved and sent to him, as a reminder that if he wanted to run for public office and be interviewed by journalists, he would need to learn how to speak in a public setting. He sent me a wonderful note of thanks. I interviewed him a couple of more times during that election cycle and every time he seemed to understand the process and sounded much more prepared. I interviewed him the night he won his senate seat. That is how it goes in Alaska.
Which is why this debt ceiling debate going on in Washington DC right now is driving me crazy. It is not an us versus them debate, as the liberal democrats or the right ing conservatives would have us believe. Nor is it that after 8 to 10 years of republicans rubber stamping massive deficit spending for two completely useless wars, they have now seen the light of wasteful spending and thus would like to put the screws to grandpas social security. No, these politicians, unlike my friend the fishing senator, these are whores who have been bought and paid for by big business and special interests and they are pretending like they care about anything other than whomever it was who paid for their last election.
See, the fisherman in Alaska had to take time off his real job to run for office. He had to spend his own money to fly from small hamlet to even smaller fishing village to meet voters. He had to shake hands with people who actually worked with their hands. He was far from perfect, but he could look people in the eye and explain who he was and what he actually believed in. I do not think there are many politicians in Washington who could do that. They are too busy sloshing around on their knees, begging for more campaign money and licking the boots of their over lords.
I am not being cynical. I too have whored myself out and I felt like shit when I have done it. I did it because I needed something and I needed money to do that something. Politicians are the same, they may have started with good intentions, but when you get to the big leagues of politics, you are a whore of a scale rarely seen in this world. These whores in cheap suits are not fighting for lower taxes, higher taxes, better anything, worse anything, they are just whores fighting for the richest people in our country, because those are the people who pay them.
I'm sorry, I really am. I too was told the lie that the voters elect our politicians and those people represent us, the voters, the people, the real Americans. That is just not the case. The whores of DC represent big business, non-tax paying corporations and the super wealthy, who fly their owned and paid for politicians around in private jets, to private golf courses, to play golf and talk about important things that only the politicians and super wealthy really need to know about. In the end, in this country, on almost every level, you get what you pay for. You buy a cheap car and it breaks down, the guy in the Mercedes will honk as he passes you on the side of the road and say, "you get what you pay for." When you, with you degree from Boise State College can not get into law school because the guy from Harvard gets the last placement, he will look at you and think to himself, "you get what you pay for." When Bill Gates, having earned billions of dollars last year and paid about 17 dollars in taxes calls up any of the politicians he owns, he smiles at one of his wives and says, "I get what I pay for."
There was a time when I lived in Washington State that I gave running for office some serious thought, but even then, the skeletons in my closet would rattle with delight. Today, while I believe I could bring a lot to the political table, those skeletons have been breeding and my closet runneth over. It is sad, because really, it's not just that the congress is overrun with good for nothing, idiotic, scummy whores, but they almost seem proud. These people are not patriots.
There is a prostitute who works under a bridge not more than 3 blocks from my house. I walked down there yesterday and asked her how much for a blow job. 10 Bucks she said. How much for the full deal? 20. How much to raise the debt ceiling, I asked. "Look, I'm a whore, I ain't no politician, some things are below me."
While working in New York I interviewed former governor Mario Cuomo a few times and every time I left thinking he was a pretty smart man. I did not always agree with him, but then again, I do not always agree with anyone, so that should have been expected. I interviewed senator Al Gore before he became Vice President, I believe he was running for president at the time. He was earnest and kind of sweet, but also, especially back then, stiff and uncomfortable. I interviewed many politicians who hated me just because I had a microphone, which was something I never understood. See, I did not take sides, I did not have an agenda, I was always just looking for an interview.
For one candidate running for senator in Alaska, before we started, I tried to give him some interview tips, because he was young and inexperienced, I thought I could help him come across better. I told him how Governor Cuomo would intently listen to the question and take his time, in silence, to think of a proper response, and then he would answer the question, even if the silence had lasted 30 seconds. He knew the media would edit out the dead air. I told this senate candidate that story to calm him down and let him know that I would edit out the time he would take to think, so as not to let him sound like someone who does not have answers. He seemed to get it.
Then the interview started, not live, but recorded, so I could repair it if he was awkward. He was far worse that awkward. First, he did not take my advice at all. After every question, he would race to answer, without thinking, pausing or contemplating anything. His answers were jumbled and sometimes he would veer off the topic, going back to a previous question to clear up something, then trying to get back to the question at hand, and then saying the word "ah" or "um" as if that was some sort of intellectual qualifier.
The interview in raw form was a complete disaster. So I spent hours editing it. This was pre-digital editing, so every part of the interview had to be hand edited on tape, cut and spliced. I decided I would remove all the ums and uhs and try to make him come across like he did not sound like a bumbling idiot. He was, by the way, not a bumbling idiot. He was a right wing, republican. He was also a fisherman, a family man and a very nice guy. I liked him, as I liked most of the politicians I met in Alaska.
In the end, his interview sounded a lot better on the air than it did in person. I sent him a copy of it along with a small baggy of pieces of tape, a lot of pieces of tape. In fact, there were hundreds of ums and uhs that I had edited and saved and sent to him, as a reminder that if he wanted to run for public office and be interviewed by journalists, he would need to learn how to speak in a public setting. He sent me a wonderful note of thanks. I interviewed him a couple of more times during that election cycle and every time he seemed to understand the process and sounded much more prepared. I interviewed him the night he won his senate seat. That is how it goes in Alaska.
Which is why this debt ceiling debate going on in Washington DC right now is driving me crazy. It is not an us versus them debate, as the liberal democrats or the right ing conservatives would have us believe. Nor is it that after 8 to 10 years of republicans rubber stamping massive deficit spending for two completely useless wars, they have now seen the light of wasteful spending and thus would like to put the screws to grandpas social security. No, these politicians, unlike my friend the fishing senator, these are whores who have been bought and paid for by big business and special interests and they are pretending like they care about anything other than whomever it was who paid for their last election.
See, the fisherman in Alaska had to take time off his real job to run for office. He had to spend his own money to fly from small hamlet to even smaller fishing village to meet voters. He had to shake hands with people who actually worked with their hands. He was far from perfect, but he could look people in the eye and explain who he was and what he actually believed in. I do not think there are many politicians in Washington who could do that. They are too busy sloshing around on their knees, begging for more campaign money and licking the boots of their over lords.
I am not being cynical. I too have whored myself out and I felt like shit when I have done it. I did it because I needed something and I needed money to do that something. Politicians are the same, they may have started with good intentions, but when you get to the big leagues of politics, you are a whore of a scale rarely seen in this world. These whores in cheap suits are not fighting for lower taxes, higher taxes, better anything, worse anything, they are just whores fighting for the richest people in our country, because those are the people who pay them.
I'm sorry, I really am. I too was told the lie that the voters elect our politicians and those people represent us, the voters, the people, the real Americans. That is just not the case. The whores of DC represent big business, non-tax paying corporations and the super wealthy, who fly their owned and paid for politicians around in private jets, to private golf courses, to play golf and talk about important things that only the politicians and super wealthy really need to know about. In the end, in this country, on almost every level, you get what you pay for. You buy a cheap car and it breaks down, the guy in the Mercedes will honk as he passes you on the side of the road and say, "you get what you pay for." When you, with you degree from Boise State College can not get into law school because the guy from Harvard gets the last placement, he will look at you and think to himself, "you get what you pay for." When Bill Gates, having earned billions of dollars last year and paid about 17 dollars in taxes calls up any of the politicians he owns, he smiles at one of his wives and says, "I get what I pay for."
There was a time when I lived in Washington State that I gave running for office some serious thought, but even then, the skeletons in my closet would rattle with delight. Today, while I believe I could bring a lot to the political table, those skeletons have been breeding and my closet runneth over. It is sad, because really, it's not just that the congress is overrun with good for nothing, idiotic, scummy whores, but they almost seem proud. These people are not patriots.
There is a prostitute who works under a bridge not more than 3 blocks from my house. I walked down there yesterday and asked her how much for a blow job. 10 Bucks she said. How much for the full deal? 20. How much to raise the debt ceiling, I asked. "Look, I'm a whore, I ain't no politician, some things are below me."
It's not so hard saying goodbye
I am officially PIP free. I know, it hurts to me to say goodbye and I will be holding an appropriate black mass to wish them the best. Until then, they will aways have a place in my mind, a big dark empty place. Goodbye my pips, may you never sing your lovely songs inside my head again.
I get the emails. Thank you
It's true, if I don't post shit on this blog, my email box fills up with people wondering why I am not blogging. Have you people ever heard of the concept of a life?
I was hoping to elope.
I have a young child that I leaving for college. I have another that is returning to the nest and another that is returning to rebuild the nest and another that I just found out about via the Maury show, which bothers me to no end.
I illegally taped a phone conversation with someone who was never supposed to call me again, I thought you people might find that interesting, but because I am almost constantly reading emails from people asking me why I am not constantly posting new blog posts, I have been unable to transcribe the phone call, or for that matter, post anything refreshing or sexy on this blog.
My dear friend Houdini stopped by, smoked pot in my bed, and had sex in my bedroom (certainly not with me), possibly not in that order, and then called to tell me all about that. I guess I could post something about that.
A close friend told me he was thinking of killing himself. We talked for an hour or so. Here is what I hate about people. Scummy people I have run across in my life, like this Sketchy the addict psychopath, they never call saying they feel the need to kill themselves, because if I got that call (please Sketchy make the call) I would suggest it would be the rightest of all the right things to do. No, instead, one of the sweetest and most giving and loving and honest people I know feels like life is too much, people are too mean and self centered and this pain of a life has got to come to an end. See how that works? People who use and abuse? They dance around life without a care. People who love and help others? They feel the burden of lifes injustice and can not take it.
My friend did not kill himself. Yet. He will, that much I am sure of. But not today.
Reminds me. This whole freedom of choice thing. Well, wait a second, I was not really looking for any sort of long winded post, because quite honestly, I am taking a well deserved break from using my tiny and inadequate brain, but here I am, in the midst of writing this, and thinking about a dear friend thinking seriously of killing himself, and it reminded me that we all make choices and sometimes no one cares and sometimes others care, and sometimes assholes outside abortion clinics pretend to care, but they are assholes and no one should care what assholes say or do.
Choice is a funny thing. We hear all the time about this concept of freedom of choice. Heck, I have a cellphone that was sold to me in part because I have the freedom of choosing the best service and the most competitive price. I had to make a choice. Not a profound choice, but one that best serves my needs. In the last 30 years or so, when people often speak of personal choice, it seems the subject is almost always abortion. Now, if you read this blog at all, you know I am anti-abortion, always have been, always will be. That is my choice, then again, I never have, nor will I ever have to, get one. Thus, my opinion is kind of self contained. It's kind of the way I feel about people who speak French. I don't do it, but if you do it, I could care less. Should speaking French be illegal? Maybe, but I am just one man, and not French, and I hardly ever go to France and when I do, I hardly speak French when there, and this could be going somewhere profound, then again, it's not.
My point being, choice is a wonderful thing, unless people are making a choice I profoundly disagree with. That said, while I am anti-abortion, I believe strongly in a woman's right to make any choice she sees fit for her own body. Why? Because I realize that the minute I am given the power to make choices over other peoples bodies, someone else will be making choices over mine and that does not sit well with me.
People make choices every day that I disagree with. I was accidentally in a WalMart store this past weekend and I found myself surrounded by these incredibly large, slow moving obese people. Talk about people making choices, these people, pushing baskets filled with the most unhealthy food possible, are continually making choices that will shorten their lives and make what life they do have uncomfortable for them and their children, but then again, freedom of choice gives them that right, more power to them and all that stuff. Do I agree with their choice? Hell no, then again, I am sure they look at me, see me in my dirty paint stained shorts and god knows what sort of stained t-shirt and think some of the same things. Choice is hardly pretty, but it's pretty powerful.
Which brings me back to my suicidal friend. We talked for a long time a couple of nights ago. We talked about people who take advantage of nice people, because they see nice people are easy targets. He is a nice man, who sets himself up for assholes and con artists to take advantage of. He has a nice house and plenty of extra rooms, so over the years, people who needed a place, could find one with him. I have known for years that at any point, I could make a call, he would pick me up and I would have a bed for as long as I needed, if I just asked. That is the kind of guy he is. Being that he is that kind of guy, the people who take advantage of that sort of kindness often have, and again, another person recently has and my friend is tired.
So, when my friend said he is done, the pain, the longing for someone to be better, the injustice of people who only use and abuse has finally beaten him down, he wants to leave and not come back, to end it all, to say good bye. We talked a long time, because for the most part he and I share this vision that the fight against cynicism is important and necessary, that cynics are the cancer on happiness and love. That said, I also understand the allure of choice. I support choice for him. I told him that. I said that if it really is time for him to end this life, I support him, that I love him, that I respect his choice.
He is still here today. He will be for a while. Not because of anything I said, but because he made another choice. He chose not to let bullies and idiots ruin his life. He chose not to become cynical like them, to become a user and a dick. Instead, he will remain a good man, a person willing to help others when they need it and ask for help when he needs it. He is a good man and this world needs good people.
I was hoping to elope.
I have a young child that I leaving for college. I have another that is returning to the nest and another that is returning to rebuild the nest and another that I just found out about via the Maury show, which bothers me to no end.
I illegally taped a phone conversation with someone who was never supposed to call me again, I thought you people might find that interesting, but because I am almost constantly reading emails from people asking me why I am not constantly posting new blog posts, I have been unable to transcribe the phone call, or for that matter, post anything refreshing or sexy on this blog.
My dear friend Houdini stopped by, smoked pot in my bed, and had sex in my bedroom (certainly not with me), possibly not in that order, and then called to tell me all about that. I guess I could post something about that.
A close friend told me he was thinking of killing himself. We talked for an hour or so. Here is what I hate about people. Scummy people I have run across in my life, like this Sketchy the addict psychopath, they never call saying they feel the need to kill themselves, because if I got that call (please Sketchy make the call) I would suggest it would be the rightest of all the right things to do. No, instead, one of the sweetest and most giving and loving and honest people I know feels like life is too much, people are too mean and self centered and this pain of a life has got to come to an end. See how that works? People who use and abuse? They dance around life without a care. People who love and help others? They feel the burden of lifes injustice and can not take it.
My friend did not kill himself. Yet. He will, that much I am sure of. But not today.
Reminds me. This whole freedom of choice thing. Well, wait a second, I was not really looking for any sort of long winded post, because quite honestly, I am taking a well deserved break from using my tiny and inadequate brain, but here I am, in the midst of writing this, and thinking about a dear friend thinking seriously of killing himself, and it reminded me that we all make choices and sometimes no one cares and sometimes others care, and sometimes assholes outside abortion clinics pretend to care, but they are assholes and no one should care what assholes say or do.
Choice is a funny thing. We hear all the time about this concept of freedom of choice. Heck, I have a cellphone that was sold to me in part because I have the freedom of choosing the best service and the most competitive price. I had to make a choice. Not a profound choice, but one that best serves my needs. In the last 30 years or so, when people often speak of personal choice, it seems the subject is almost always abortion. Now, if you read this blog at all, you know I am anti-abortion, always have been, always will be. That is my choice, then again, I never have, nor will I ever have to, get one. Thus, my opinion is kind of self contained. It's kind of the way I feel about people who speak French. I don't do it, but if you do it, I could care less. Should speaking French be illegal? Maybe, but I am just one man, and not French, and I hardly ever go to France and when I do, I hardly speak French when there, and this could be going somewhere profound, then again, it's not.
My point being, choice is a wonderful thing, unless people are making a choice I profoundly disagree with. That said, while I am anti-abortion, I believe strongly in a woman's right to make any choice she sees fit for her own body. Why? Because I realize that the minute I am given the power to make choices over other peoples bodies, someone else will be making choices over mine and that does not sit well with me.
People make choices every day that I disagree with. I was accidentally in a WalMart store this past weekend and I found myself surrounded by these incredibly large, slow moving obese people. Talk about people making choices, these people, pushing baskets filled with the most unhealthy food possible, are continually making choices that will shorten their lives and make what life they do have uncomfortable for them and their children, but then again, freedom of choice gives them that right, more power to them and all that stuff. Do I agree with their choice? Hell no, then again, I am sure they look at me, see me in my dirty paint stained shorts and god knows what sort of stained t-shirt and think some of the same things. Choice is hardly pretty, but it's pretty powerful.
Which brings me back to my suicidal friend. We talked for a long time a couple of nights ago. We talked about people who take advantage of nice people, because they see nice people are easy targets. He is a nice man, who sets himself up for assholes and con artists to take advantage of. He has a nice house and plenty of extra rooms, so over the years, people who needed a place, could find one with him. I have known for years that at any point, I could make a call, he would pick me up and I would have a bed for as long as I needed, if I just asked. That is the kind of guy he is. Being that he is that kind of guy, the people who take advantage of that sort of kindness often have, and again, another person recently has and my friend is tired.
So, when my friend said he is done, the pain, the longing for someone to be better, the injustice of people who only use and abuse has finally beaten him down, he wants to leave and not come back, to end it all, to say good bye. We talked a long time, because for the most part he and I share this vision that the fight against cynicism is important and necessary, that cynics are the cancer on happiness and love. That said, I also understand the allure of choice. I support choice for him. I told him that. I said that if it really is time for him to end this life, I support him, that I love him, that I respect his choice.
He is still here today. He will be for a while. Not because of anything I said, but because he made another choice. He chose not to let bullies and idiots ruin his life. He chose not to become cynical like them, to become a user and a dick. Instead, he will remain a good man, a person willing to help others when they need it and ask for help when he needs it. He is a good man and this world needs good people.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Fred Phelps email
I have made friends with a bird couple, I believe their name is the Rosenbaums, the only time they said it, I was eating a sandwich and I was not paying attention, it's not that important.
The Rosenbaums live inside my houses wall. A broken brick has opened wide enough to allow the Rosenbaums access to the inner part of the wall, where they have created something of a breeding condo. I talk with the Rosenbaums. A couple of weeks ago I was working on a fence and Mrs. Rosenbaum stopped by to chat. She mentioned that she had a few babies, not surprising, the way she and the mister go at it. I did not, of course, say that.
The Rosenbaums are a very sweet couple and I really do not mind at all that they have taken up residence in the wall of my residence. Not at all, really. Although, to be honest, while I was working on that fence, I did notice that the hole in the brick that serves as the Rosenbaums front door would need to be sealed if I did not want to pay an incredibly high surcharge in my winter heating bill. I said nothing to Mrs. Rosenbaum. She flew away after a few minutes of silly chit chat. She is a dodgers fan, Iam not.
One day recently I stopped at the Rosenbaums front door, stood on my tip toes and glanced into the hole in the brick. I could not see anything inside, and then Mr. Rosenbaum shuffled out, asked me what the fuck I wanted, and flew away. Rude I thought, what does she see in him anyway?
I made a point to really look at the size of the Rosenbaums front door. I have this spray sealant that was developed for sealing and insulating these very types of holes in bricks. I would use that, once the Rosenbaums children had grown and left the nest, so to speak, since it really could not be considered a nest in any real term, I mean, it's a hole in my houses wall for gods sake.
Recently Mr. Rosenbaum confronted me and was very aggressive. "Hey Fatty," He started. Let me pause here for a second. While I am a bit overweight by most government standards, it is striking that over the past few months friends, co-workers, my dentist, a talking billboard, my lesbian dead dog and now an angry Jewish bird all have referred to me as fat. I'm just saying, I'm doing everything I can, but dammit, I do love me them donuts. "Hey Fatty, what you scoping out my place for? You got eyes on my woman?"
"Yeah, she's good enough to eat."
"That's fucked up son, that's fucked up."
"I was kidding Mr. Rosenbaum. No, I figure when you guys leave for the winter, I am going to want to seal up the front door."
"What's that again?"
"You know, your kids will have left the nest, you and Mrs. Rosenbaum fly off to Florida and I can seal off the place."
"Now wait one second there Mr. Rotundo. Just because we're Jewish you automatically think we go to Florida in the Winter."
"I didn't mean that."
"But you said that."
"Right."
"Right. Well, no. Fuck you to that stupid shit idea. Got it. That's our home and you will not be doing anything to it. Am I clear?"
"Yes."
"Good, and really, work out or something, what do you weigh now, like 250?"
I walked in the house.
Logically, I really have nothing to worry about. I mean, the Jewish angry birds will fly off to Florida, or wherever it is they go during the winter, and I can seal up the hole in my wall long before the real cold sets in. Plus, they are birds, what can they do? As far as I know, they don't even read this blog.
There was a knock on the window. A tapping really. An angry tapping. It was Mr. Rosenbaum. He was screaming at me. "Johnny is dead."
I opened the door, on the ground laid a little tiny featherless bird, very small, a baby bird, laying dead, there, on the ground. Mrs. Rosenbaum was standing beside it, she looked at me, kind of shrugged her wings and flew up and into the hole in my wall. A mother has to care for what remains in her nest I guess. Then Mr. Rosenbaum asked me to take care of the body and he too flew into their house, which is also my house, but I did not say that.
For whatever reason I knew I could dispose of their baby, Johnny. Weird that a Jewish couple would name their baby Johnny. Before I did anything I walked out to where the body laid and I took out my phone and I took a picture of the lifeless bird. It almost looked like a fetus, which made me think of that insane preacher in Kansas who hates everyone and protests at funerals. I went into my house, found out his name is Fred Phelps, found an email address and sent him the picture of the barely formed bird with the subject line reading, "something must be done."
I buried Johnny in my backyard garden of hope, near the growing watermelon plants.
Later that night, or better, early the next morning, around 2 AM, I got an email. Fred Phelps replied, "Amen brother."
Amen indeed.
The Rosenbaums live inside my houses wall. A broken brick has opened wide enough to allow the Rosenbaums access to the inner part of the wall, where they have created something of a breeding condo. I talk with the Rosenbaums. A couple of weeks ago I was working on a fence and Mrs. Rosenbaum stopped by to chat. She mentioned that she had a few babies, not surprising, the way she and the mister go at it. I did not, of course, say that.
The Rosenbaums are a very sweet couple and I really do not mind at all that they have taken up residence in the wall of my residence. Not at all, really. Although, to be honest, while I was working on that fence, I did notice that the hole in the brick that serves as the Rosenbaums front door would need to be sealed if I did not want to pay an incredibly high surcharge in my winter heating bill. I said nothing to Mrs. Rosenbaum. She flew away after a few minutes of silly chit chat. She is a dodgers fan, Iam not.
One day recently I stopped at the Rosenbaums front door, stood on my tip toes and glanced into the hole in the brick. I could not see anything inside, and then Mr. Rosenbaum shuffled out, asked me what the fuck I wanted, and flew away. Rude I thought, what does she see in him anyway?
I made a point to really look at the size of the Rosenbaums front door. I have this spray sealant that was developed for sealing and insulating these very types of holes in bricks. I would use that, once the Rosenbaums children had grown and left the nest, so to speak, since it really could not be considered a nest in any real term, I mean, it's a hole in my houses wall for gods sake.
Recently Mr. Rosenbaum confronted me and was very aggressive. "Hey Fatty," He started. Let me pause here for a second. While I am a bit overweight by most government standards, it is striking that over the past few months friends, co-workers, my dentist, a talking billboard, my lesbian dead dog and now an angry Jewish bird all have referred to me as fat. I'm just saying, I'm doing everything I can, but dammit, I do love me them donuts. "Hey Fatty, what you scoping out my place for? You got eyes on my woman?"
"Yeah, she's good enough to eat."
"That's fucked up son, that's fucked up."
"I was kidding Mr. Rosenbaum. No, I figure when you guys leave for the winter, I am going to want to seal up the front door."
"What's that again?"
"You know, your kids will have left the nest, you and Mrs. Rosenbaum fly off to Florida and I can seal off the place."
"Now wait one second there Mr. Rotundo. Just because we're Jewish you automatically think we go to Florida in the Winter."
"I didn't mean that."
"But you said that."
"Right."
"Right. Well, no. Fuck you to that stupid shit idea. Got it. That's our home and you will not be doing anything to it. Am I clear?"
"Yes."
"Good, and really, work out or something, what do you weigh now, like 250?"
I walked in the house.
Logically, I really have nothing to worry about. I mean, the Jewish angry birds will fly off to Florida, or wherever it is they go during the winter, and I can seal up the hole in my wall long before the real cold sets in. Plus, they are birds, what can they do? As far as I know, they don't even read this blog.
There was a knock on the window. A tapping really. An angry tapping. It was Mr. Rosenbaum. He was screaming at me. "Johnny is dead."
I opened the door, on the ground laid a little tiny featherless bird, very small, a baby bird, laying dead, there, on the ground. Mrs. Rosenbaum was standing beside it, she looked at me, kind of shrugged her wings and flew up and into the hole in my wall. A mother has to care for what remains in her nest I guess. Then Mr. Rosenbaum asked me to take care of the body and he too flew into their house, which is also my house, but I did not say that.
For whatever reason I knew I could dispose of their baby, Johnny. Weird that a Jewish couple would name their baby Johnny. Before I did anything I walked out to where the body laid and I took out my phone and I took a picture of the lifeless bird. It almost looked like a fetus, which made me think of that insane preacher in Kansas who hates everyone and protests at funerals. I went into my house, found out his name is Fred Phelps, found an email address and sent him the picture of the barely formed bird with the subject line reading, "something must be done."
I buried Johnny in my backyard garden of hope, near the growing watermelon plants.
Later that night, or better, early the next morning, around 2 AM, I got an email. Fred Phelps replied, "Amen brother."
Amen indeed.
Sexual ambiguity
We were just at the local police station, because when it is 100 degrees outside, we will do just about anything to get air conditioning.
So there we were, filing out super important crime report, when I noticed that the super macho officer had a tattoo, the sort of tattoo I seemed to recognize. I squinted a bit, and I think he caught me looking, because when out eyes me, he smiled.
There are all sorts of communications that go on that sometimes we are aware of, and sometimes not so much. This was one of the ones that was kind of open ended, and could have meant something, and could have meant nothing.
When we left, the person I was with, we will call her Becky, said, "what was that all about?" I played all innocent, but I knew what she was talking about.
"It is something people do, they look, they smile, then they say goodbye."
"Seemed like something more."
"Sometimes it is."
"Was this one of those times?"
"I'm engaged."
"So?"
"So, when one is engaged, they kind of like to smile, but that's about as far as it goes."
"Right," Becky said, with an air of disbelief.
Which brings up a good point, since when did police start wearing Batman utility belts? This guy had a little of everything on his belt, from a gun and handcuffs, to a tazer and then an assortment of other stuff wrapped in leather than just made my mind whirl. Years ago I thought for a few seconds of becoming a police officer. I may have missed my calling.
So there we were, filing out super important crime report, when I noticed that the super macho officer had a tattoo, the sort of tattoo I seemed to recognize. I squinted a bit, and I think he caught me looking, because when out eyes me, he smiled.
There are all sorts of communications that go on that sometimes we are aware of, and sometimes not so much. This was one of the ones that was kind of open ended, and could have meant something, and could have meant nothing.
When we left, the person I was with, we will call her Becky, said, "what was that all about?" I played all innocent, but I knew what she was talking about.
"It is something people do, they look, they smile, then they say goodbye."
"Seemed like something more."
"Sometimes it is."
"Was this one of those times?"
"I'm engaged."
"So?"
"So, when one is engaged, they kind of like to smile, but that's about as far as it goes."
"Right," Becky said, with an air of disbelief.
Which brings up a good point, since when did police start wearing Batman utility belts? This guy had a little of everything on his belt, from a gun and handcuffs, to a tazer and then an assortment of other stuff wrapped in leather than just made my mind whirl. Years ago I thought for a few seconds of becoming a police officer. I may have missed my calling.
Family
I am kind of sick of retarded people dictating what is best for the children. Oh, you know what I mean when I say retarded people, we all know. Wink wink.
When bigots speak, they like to use catch phrases and terms that everyone understands means one thing, but when said in a big giant public place means another.
As a white guy, sometimes my fellow white people say things to me, in confidence, or just out of racist tendencies, that I am supposed to either agree with, or just kind of let slide. I used to kind of know this terrible person, whom for the sake of this tangent I will call Sir Lies Alot (SLA) and one day SLA and I were driving through a less than sweet area of a decent sized American city. As we drove down a street, we happened to see a small gathering of African American men sitting on a porch in front of a not so well groomed house. SLA took this in and looked over to me and said, "looks like they are waiting for their welfare check."
I think SLA thought this was supposed to be funny. No, SLA came from poor white trash from one of those inbred western states, mom was a drunk, dad was a drunk, both survived on the kindness of agencies that gave them food and shelter. So, there we were, in a poor neighborhood, seeing a group of black people on a porch, and the only thing SLA could muster was that comment. So I called him on it, saying he was an inbred racist because, well, because the first thing he says about a group of black people on a porch is that they must be on welfare, and just waiting for that check to come so they could go buy themselves some crack. Oh, did I forget to mention that SLA had a crack addiction? I know, kettle calling the blacks addicts. Or something. The thing about people like SLA is that what the love to see in others, they never see in themselves.
It was soon after that incident that I decided SLA was not someone I wanted to be driving around with. What I also took away from that moment was the inherent bigotry that remains a part of the fabric of our country. See, SLA came from poor, no one from his family had accomplished anything, he was well on his way to becoming a disease spreading con-artist, which in his family was a high accomplishment indeed. But when liars and creeps lie, people need to call them on it.
When scumbags try to twist facts and pretend to make fair arguments out of twisted logic, someone needs to stand up and say, wait a second, I believe you just jumped off a cliff. The clip below is one of those moments. See, right now in America, you have this strange moment where for whatever reason, the vast majority of states do not allow gay people to marry. Then you get these old white guys, because trust me, it is always old white guys, who stand up and say the very fabric of our country will be ruined if we allow the gays to marry. Except, of course, that we have 5 or 6 states that already allow those pesky equal rights loving gays to marry and you know what has happened? Nothing, well, nothing except that gay people who want to express their love for one another and commit to one another in a ceremony in front of friends and family have been doing so for years now. When they do get married, people celebrate, because marriage is like that, it has promise and hope written all over it. The bigots and haters want to keep the gays away from that moment. For whatever reason, these old white guys want to keep marriage and all those insurance and tax breaks that come with it, all to themselves. Go figure.
I did some research, in the states that allow gay marriage, there has not been a single divorce filed that cited as a reason for the divorce "gay marriage." Weird, right? Because, if you recall, when the debate if being held about gay marriage, the bigots and the insane will always say, "if ya allow them gays ta marry, then ya may as well allow men to marry sheep."
As someone who has owned a couple of sheep, this is a terrible idea.
Anyway, here is what happened when an old white guy tries to twist information to fit his distorted view of the world.
When bigots speak, they like to use catch phrases and terms that everyone understands means one thing, but when said in a big giant public place means another.
As a white guy, sometimes my fellow white people say things to me, in confidence, or just out of racist tendencies, that I am supposed to either agree with, or just kind of let slide. I used to kind of know this terrible person, whom for the sake of this tangent I will call Sir Lies Alot (SLA) and one day SLA and I were driving through a less than sweet area of a decent sized American city. As we drove down a street, we happened to see a small gathering of African American men sitting on a porch in front of a not so well groomed house. SLA took this in and looked over to me and said, "looks like they are waiting for their welfare check."
I think SLA thought this was supposed to be funny. No, SLA came from poor white trash from one of those inbred western states, mom was a drunk, dad was a drunk, both survived on the kindness of agencies that gave them food and shelter. So, there we were, in a poor neighborhood, seeing a group of black people on a porch, and the only thing SLA could muster was that comment. So I called him on it, saying he was an inbred racist because, well, because the first thing he says about a group of black people on a porch is that they must be on welfare, and just waiting for that check to come so they could go buy themselves some crack. Oh, did I forget to mention that SLA had a crack addiction? I know, kettle calling the blacks addicts. Or something. The thing about people like SLA is that what the love to see in others, they never see in themselves.
It was soon after that incident that I decided SLA was not someone I wanted to be driving around with. What I also took away from that moment was the inherent bigotry that remains a part of the fabric of our country. See, SLA came from poor, no one from his family had accomplished anything, he was well on his way to becoming a disease spreading con-artist, which in his family was a high accomplishment indeed. But when liars and creeps lie, people need to call them on it.
When scumbags try to twist facts and pretend to make fair arguments out of twisted logic, someone needs to stand up and say, wait a second, I believe you just jumped off a cliff. The clip below is one of those moments. See, right now in America, you have this strange moment where for whatever reason, the vast majority of states do not allow gay people to marry. Then you get these old white guys, because trust me, it is always old white guys, who stand up and say the very fabric of our country will be ruined if we allow the gays to marry. Except, of course, that we have 5 or 6 states that already allow those pesky equal rights loving gays to marry and you know what has happened? Nothing, well, nothing except that gay people who want to express their love for one another and commit to one another in a ceremony in front of friends and family have been doing so for years now. When they do get married, people celebrate, because marriage is like that, it has promise and hope written all over it. The bigots and haters want to keep the gays away from that moment. For whatever reason, these old white guys want to keep marriage and all those insurance and tax breaks that come with it, all to themselves. Go figure.
I did some research, in the states that allow gay marriage, there has not been a single divorce filed that cited as a reason for the divorce "gay marriage." Weird, right? Because, if you recall, when the debate if being held about gay marriage, the bigots and the insane will always say, "if ya allow them gays ta marry, then ya may as well allow men to marry sheep."
As someone who has owned a couple of sheep, this is a terrible idea.
Anyway, here is what happened when an old white guy tries to twist information to fit his distorted view of the world.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The problem with others
Are you a chosen one? Are you a Google Plus Person (GPP)?
If not, stop reading, because, most of what follows really will be too technical and too sophisticated for you to understand. Go on, run to Facebook and update your sill little status.
OK, are they gone? Is it just us Plussers?
Gather in. Come closer.
Is it just us? Good.
I am tired of communicating. Thank you for the offer, but really, my life is boring, although, have you heard, I have a blog?
Here's the deal, people need time alone. With email and Facebook and cellphones, it is almost impossible to have a creative moment for yourself anymore. I was dating a Tone Deaf Dork for a few hours once and I kept getting text messages. Now, I had warned TDD that I paint and when I paint, I don't answer phones, or email, or communicate, I play loud music and paint. Then I sleep and when I wake up the next day, I check mail and messages.
So TDD lost it one night, texting me literally every 5 minutes, where was I, what's up, was everything OK, why no answer, sup, whats going on, on and on and on.
It was soon after that night that I realized that TDD was way too crazy and in my business to be a part of my life. It's kind of funny when you are dating someone and you tell them something, like I paint and don't bother with phones and such from the start, and yet, soon after, they are bothering you when you phone is at least 100 yards away and turned off. People often times do not listen.
When I was a teenager I would be going to this or that and right as I was about to leave, my mother would be lounging in a chair, a python, coiled, ready to attack. As my hand began to turn the doorknob a voice from over my shoulder, "where are you going? Who are you going with? When will you be back?" At first, the questions were welcome, but as my life became more clandestine, so did my need for non-disclosure. Then one day I realized something, she was asking the questions, but only out of habit, there had been others before me, the older ones, already having escaped, to me, as a teenager, they no longer existed, but the old Jewish python, she knew the routine, she must ask the questions. What I realized is, she did not care what the answers were, at first I would say a name, any name, Joe and I were going to a movie, be back in a couple of hours. I did not know a Joe. We did not go to a movie, a couple hours could be anything. Then I realized even those answers did not matter, soon I could say, Hitler and I are invading England, should be a week or two, be back when I'm dead. She would say good night and that would be it.
I didn't have a cellphone. There was no expectation that I would call. We could not text every five minutes with meaningless updates. No, I was considered almost an adult, do what I must, just be responsible for what I did. One night I got shot at and the police were called. I believe the response was, you are obviously guilty of something, you are a fuck up.
I have been getting a lot of painting done this summer and it has dawned on me how that has been possible. First, there is no one here. The kids are somewhere, my fiance is in a coma, the dog got hit by a car, the cat is making lesbian cat porn, the Polish immigrant family that had been illegally living in my basement may have died, the brain surgeon that performs illegal botox operations in my bedroom is here, but she passed out a few nights ago and only wakes to use the restroom, inject more botox into her neck and pass out again near the body of my dead dog. Which means I have plenty of time to focus.
That said last night I had a text conversation with the father of my son. I know, read it again and you will understand. Anyway, at some point he called me Staten Island Matt, which brought back a slew of memories. For a short period of time many thousands of years ago, I lived at a kennel on Staten Island, which is near New York City, I think it might officially be a borough, but because of the racial makeup and the abundance of back hair, it might as well be a borough of Tuscany, if you know what I mean.
I lived with Captain Zucchini and for the most part, life was excellent, but when life is excellent at the start of your adult life, you don't realize it. You think it could be a hell of a lot better, so you pass on excellent and begin searching for something better. Captain Zucchini was a Seal Team leader, a tri-athlete, a model and a CB radio icon. He fell in love with an old smart man named Iggy, in fact, I think we both did, but Captain and Iggy would soon high tail it for Maine and I would leave for Los Angeles. The point is, it was a good moment that I was unable to realize at the time. The other point is, I get this late night text from someone who has that memory of me.
So I texted my sons father back and reminded him of a night when I rode on the back of his motorcycle through the canyons of Manhattan on into the wilds of Connecticut to see the Clash in concert. We texted back and forth like that for a moment, because when you know someone for a long time, you can recall things that seem to have been long forgotten.
Strange fact, a year or so after the motorcycle concert I would end up cooking dinner for the Clash on Long Island. I will not go into details except to say that I did ask Joe Strummer if he remembered the show in Hartford from a year earlier and he looked at me like I might be insane.
The point of this is, if you are like me, and thank the good lord sweet jesus you are not, but just in case you are, do not fear the silence. Leave the phone in a drawer. Turn off the computer. Take a walk, or a bike ride, make love to someone you enjoy, and above all else, bury the dead dog long before she starts to smell.
If not, stop reading, because, most of what follows really will be too technical and too sophisticated for you to understand. Go on, run to Facebook and update your sill little status.
OK, are they gone? Is it just us Plussers?
Gather in. Come closer.
Is it just us? Good.
I am tired of communicating. Thank you for the offer, but really, my life is boring, although, have you heard, I have a blog?
Here's the deal, people need time alone. With email and Facebook and cellphones, it is almost impossible to have a creative moment for yourself anymore. I was dating a Tone Deaf Dork for a few hours once and I kept getting text messages. Now, I had warned TDD that I paint and when I paint, I don't answer phones, or email, or communicate, I play loud music and paint. Then I sleep and when I wake up the next day, I check mail and messages.
So TDD lost it one night, texting me literally every 5 minutes, where was I, what's up, was everything OK, why no answer, sup, whats going on, on and on and on.
It was soon after that night that I realized that TDD was way too crazy and in my business to be a part of my life. It's kind of funny when you are dating someone and you tell them something, like I paint and don't bother with phones and such from the start, and yet, soon after, they are bothering you when you phone is at least 100 yards away and turned off. People often times do not listen.
When I was a teenager I would be going to this or that and right as I was about to leave, my mother would be lounging in a chair, a python, coiled, ready to attack. As my hand began to turn the doorknob a voice from over my shoulder, "where are you going? Who are you going with? When will you be back?" At first, the questions were welcome, but as my life became more clandestine, so did my need for non-disclosure. Then one day I realized something, she was asking the questions, but only out of habit, there had been others before me, the older ones, already having escaped, to me, as a teenager, they no longer existed, but the old Jewish python, she knew the routine, she must ask the questions. What I realized is, she did not care what the answers were, at first I would say a name, any name, Joe and I were going to a movie, be back in a couple of hours. I did not know a Joe. We did not go to a movie, a couple hours could be anything. Then I realized even those answers did not matter, soon I could say, Hitler and I are invading England, should be a week or two, be back when I'm dead. She would say good night and that would be it.
I didn't have a cellphone. There was no expectation that I would call. We could not text every five minutes with meaningless updates. No, I was considered almost an adult, do what I must, just be responsible for what I did. One night I got shot at and the police were called. I believe the response was, you are obviously guilty of something, you are a fuck up.
I have been getting a lot of painting done this summer and it has dawned on me how that has been possible. First, there is no one here. The kids are somewhere, my fiance is in a coma, the dog got hit by a car, the cat is making lesbian cat porn, the Polish immigrant family that had been illegally living in my basement may have died, the brain surgeon that performs illegal botox operations in my bedroom is here, but she passed out a few nights ago and only wakes to use the restroom, inject more botox into her neck and pass out again near the body of my dead dog. Which means I have plenty of time to focus.
That said last night I had a text conversation with the father of my son. I know, read it again and you will understand. Anyway, at some point he called me Staten Island Matt, which brought back a slew of memories. For a short period of time many thousands of years ago, I lived at a kennel on Staten Island, which is near New York City, I think it might officially be a borough, but because of the racial makeup and the abundance of back hair, it might as well be a borough of Tuscany, if you know what I mean.
I lived with Captain Zucchini and for the most part, life was excellent, but when life is excellent at the start of your adult life, you don't realize it. You think it could be a hell of a lot better, so you pass on excellent and begin searching for something better. Captain Zucchini was a Seal Team leader, a tri-athlete, a model and a CB radio icon. He fell in love with an old smart man named Iggy, in fact, I think we both did, but Captain and Iggy would soon high tail it for Maine and I would leave for Los Angeles. The point is, it was a good moment that I was unable to realize at the time. The other point is, I get this late night text from someone who has that memory of me.
So I texted my sons father back and reminded him of a night when I rode on the back of his motorcycle through the canyons of Manhattan on into the wilds of Connecticut to see the Clash in concert. We texted back and forth like that for a moment, because when you know someone for a long time, you can recall things that seem to have been long forgotten.
Strange fact, a year or so after the motorcycle concert I would end up cooking dinner for the Clash on Long Island. I will not go into details except to say that I did ask Joe Strummer if he remembered the show in Hartford from a year earlier and he looked at me like I might be insane.
The point of this is, if you are like me, and thank the good lord sweet jesus you are not, but just in case you are, do not fear the silence. Leave the phone in a drawer. Turn off the computer. Take a walk, or a bike ride, make love to someone you enjoy, and above all else, bury the dead dog long before she starts to smell.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
All the important news
"Here's some gross and pretty unsurprising Dominique Strauss-Kahn news: The mother of the French woman who has accused DSK of attempted rape, Anne Mansouret said they did it (consensually) and he "took me with the vulgarity of a soldier."
Wait a second, DSK just gets better and better.
""Birds should not have to suffer for donuts." So argues vegan blogger Annie Hartnett, who has penned a petition protesting a menu offering at Brooklyn's Do or Dine restaurant: the foie gras doughnut, a high-end dessert running $11 per fatted-goose-liver-filled fritter.
Tammy Lee Hinton, a 50-year-old woman from Florida, was arrested Saturday — at her own wedding in Michigan, on a felony identity theft warrant. On a more uplifting note, the cops had the decency to wait until vows had been exchanged before immediately taking her into custody. She's currently registered with the Michigan Department of Corrections and Pottery Barn.
Oh, and my friend Rupert Murdoch is about to become unemployed.
Wait a second, DSK just gets better and better.
""Birds should not have to suffer for donuts." So argues vegan blogger Annie Hartnett, who has penned a petition protesting a menu offering at Brooklyn's Do or Dine restaurant: the foie gras doughnut, a high-end dessert running $11 per fatted-goose-liver-filled fritter.
Tammy Lee Hinton, a 50-year-old woman from Florida, was arrested Saturday — at her own wedding in Michigan, on a felony identity theft warrant. On a more uplifting note, the cops had the decency to wait until vows had been exchanged before immediately taking her into custody. She's currently registered with the Michigan Department of Corrections and Pottery Barn.
Oh, and my friend Rupert Murdoch is about to become unemployed.
Monday, July 18, 2011
If you were more like me
I recently was lucky enough to have well over 35 gallons of my blood removed from my body, "all for testing" is what the young Dr. Frankenstein said as he wheeled the barrel of blood out of the back of his truck. That should have been the first clue that this might not be a legitimate clinic, seeing patients in the back of a Ford 150 is probably not up to most medical standards.
All that said, I did sign up for a service that sends me an email to tell me I can log in and find out the various results from the gallons of blood that did make it past the good doctors dinner table and into some foreign blood testing facility in Bulgaria. The nice thing about Bulgarian blood testing centers is that 9 times out of ten, part of each test contains a positive notation for Borsht.
Now, if you read this blog at all, you have probably figured out that I am a complete boob. I am about 3 IQ points higher than a donut, and not a fancy donut either. So imagine the joy when I get an email alert telling me there is some sort of medical test data that I can log in and review.
If you are like me, and thank the good lord sweet Jesus you are not, but if you were, you would log in and pretend to know what you were reading. So far, what I know is I might be pregnant.
Modern medicine.
I do have an appointment in three months to see my doctor, and I am sure that at that point the good Dr. Frankenstein will need a bit more blood to fill his habit, I mean run more tests.
All that said, I did sign up for a service that sends me an email to tell me I can log in and find out the various results from the gallons of blood that did make it past the good doctors dinner table and into some foreign blood testing facility in Bulgaria. The nice thing about Bulgarian blood testing centers is that 9 times out of ten, part of each test contains a positive notation for Borsht.
Now, if you read this blog at all, you have probably figured out that I am a complete boob. I am about 3 IQ points higher than a donut, and not a fancy donut either. So imagine the joy when I get an email alert telling me there is some sort of medical test data that I can log in and review.
If you are like me, and thank the good lord sweet Jesus you are not, but if you were, you would log in and pretend to know what you were reading. So far, what I know is I might be pregnant.
Modern medicine.
I do have an appointment in three months to see my doctor, and I am sure that at that point the good Dr. Frankenstein will need a bit more blood to fill his habit, I mean run more tests.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
The diagnosis
Even my doctors office feels dreadful. It has no natural light, and the modern energy efficient bulbs it is lit with leave a mechanical glare on the walls that make you feel as though you have entered a new world, and not a pleasant one.
Old magazines, some specialized reading material for people who have suffered in many of the ways I have. I sit down on a small couch and stare off into the paneling.
There is a wall of accomplishment next to me, diplomas, certifications, annual reports, I believe a Hooters girl signed personal photo and a photo of my doctor and former president George Bush, both smiling. Nice. One of the diplomas was from Ardvark university, at least that’s what it appeared to say, it had that strange font they use on diplomas, either Adrvark or Harvard, I made a note in my phone to check on Ardvark University.
I make notes on my phone, messages to myself, reminding my future self of something I know must be done, but something so unimportant that my future self would never be bothered to remember to do it. So I make the notes and a beep goes off and my future self will read the note, check Ardvark University, and it will be done.
The door opened, a large older woman, who once was possibly a man, called my name, I followed, a small dark room. I sat on an overstuffed chair, she left. Dr. Meesvian came in. He is neither a small man, nor a large man. He is just a man, about my height, a little heavier, badly dressed, like he went to Nordstrom and just bought a bunch of the same thing so every day he appears to be wearing what he was wearing yesterday, except it is fresh and clean. I forget who recommended Dr. Meesvian, or who sent me here, it’s been a while. I do think we are making progress.
“I have some news,” he said, hruskly, which is not his style, “there is a diagnosis, I think you are skitzofrentic.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not even how it’s spelled.”
“Either way, that’s the diagnosis. Take a minute and think about it, I have to make a personal call, I’m going to the parking lot and smoke a cigarette and make a personal call. You stay and think about the diagnosis. I’ll be back, but I need to make this call. And smoke a cigarette. I really smoke very few cigarettes, but this is one of those calls, a personal call mind you, but one that almost requires a smoke. Hell, what’d you say, you never smoked a cigarette, right? Right. I’d bet, you make this personal call for me, you’d be smoking 45 seconds in. Anyway, you think about that diagnosis, I have a call to make.”
He was gone, the door closed. The diagnosis floored me, but it did seem to make sense. There, alone in his empty office, I relaxed backinto the overstuffed chair and I called a meeting of all my personalities. I closed my eyes and the cabinet room began to fill up.
First to speak up was Billy Joe, the angry transgendered lesbian.
BJ: “First off, this is bullshit. I think we can all agree on that. Second. I think it’s also bullshit that we even go to therapy. It’s been about 2 years and I sit here listening, quiet, never a fucking word. It’s bullshit. Finally, it’s also bullshit that if he was to write dialog about me, he would use BJ as my name. Bullshit.”
David, a confirmed bachelor, cleared his throat and began with a mumble, “If I may, I said, if I may. Excuse me Billy Joe, but seriously. I think we all need to step back.”
BJ: “You know what Nancy, might be time for you to shut the fuck up.”
Father Johnny Redneck: “Billy Joe, enough now, girl, you calm yourself. This is some serious stuff. This sort of diagnosis, it can change a man.”
David: “They could drug him.”
BJ: “Fine by me, I could use a good high.”
There was a silence in the room, finally, in a bright red dress and outlandish makeup, Octopus Nanny spoke up.
ON: “ You axe me, this shit been all fucked up for long time anyways.”
David: “Speak it sister.”
ON: “Shut your mouth girl. I say we abandon shit fore we get all clogged up with morphine and shit.”
Father Johnny Redneck: “Ship.”
ON: “What you say?”
Father Johnny Redneck: “You said we should done abandon the shit. Honey, you don’t go abandoning no shit, you abandon the damn ship. S H I P.”
ON: “Well, you abandon your own shit sucker. I am leaving. This place is done for. You freaks and (looking at BJ) confused little kitty cats, you stick around and see what happens.”
With that, there was a second of silence, and she was gone. She did not really disappear, and there was no smoke or anything, she was just gone.
Then Barney the Dinosaur said, “Why, I think we should beat it too?”
BJ: “Take off fatso, no big loss.”
David: “’Cept at the dinner table.”
Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, be nice everyone. Everyone should be nice. Nice is how everyone should be.”
David: “Dude, even for a dinosaur, you’re a tard.”
Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, there you go again. Nice is the word of the day everyone. That much I know. That and I am out of here, the game is up, the diagnosis is probably as close to what I would consider…”
At this point Turnpike Lou, who sat in the corner, his back turned to everyone, continuing to wear the dunce cap for the 1417th day in a row, cleared his throat.
BJ: “Hold on. I have an idea. Lets light the dinosaur on fire and roll him through the brain, catch the fat guys attention, then we can make some demands.”
David: “Really, the “light the dinosaur on fire” again routine? Again?”
Barney the Dinosaur: “Been there, done that. Last time, he took those meds that had us all out for days.”
BJ: “Good times.”
David: “I’ll light him, open the portal.”
With that, David lit Barney on fire, BJ opened the portal and he was more or less flushed into the brain of the fat guy.
Wait a minute, I am the fat guy. How did that happen? Does that mean the assorted asshole voices in my head actually refer to me as the fat guy? How can that even be possible? Shouldn’t the voices in my head have a much more positive self image?
The office door opened and the doctor walked in. “Well, that was one fucked up phone call. Sorry, it’s personal and it would cross a lot of ethical lines to even begin to allude to any aspect of it, suffice to say, (dramatic pause) ex-wife. Anyway, the diagnosis for you stands. Let’s meet again, next week, same time.”
He stood, opened the office door, I stood, walked out and left the nondescript office building.
A couple of days later I googled Ardvark University in Omaha. It’s a college for Clowns, Dog Whisperers and Muffler Repair. I believe this will impact the diagnosis.
Old magazines, some specialized reading material for people who have suffered in many of the ways I have. I sit down on a small couch and stare off into the paneling.
There is a wall of accomplishment next to me, diplomas, certifications, annual reports, I believe a Hooters girl signed personal photo and a photo of my doctor and former president George Bush, both smiling. Nice. One of the diplomas was from Ardvark university, at least that’s what it appeared to say, it had that strange font they use on diplomas, either Adrvark or Harvard, I made a note in my phone to check on Ardvark University.
I make notes on my phone, messages to myself, reminding my future self of something I know must be done, but something so unimportant that my future self would never be bothered to remember to do it. So I make the notes and a beep goes off and my future self will read the note, check Ardvark University, and it will be done.
The door opened, a large older woman, who once was possibly a man, called my name, I followed, a small dark room. I sat on an overstuffed chair, she left. Dr. Meesvian came in. He is neither a small man, nor a large man. He is just a man, about my height, a little heavier, badly dressed, like he went to Nordstrom and just bought a bunch of the same thing so every day he appears to be wearing what he was wearing yesterday, except it is fresh and clean. I forget who recommended Dr. Meesvian, or who sent me here, it’s been a while. I do think we are making progress.
“I have some news,” he said, hruskly, which is not his style, “there is a diagnosis, I think you are skitzofrentic.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not even how it’s spelled.”
“Either way, that’s the diagnosis. Take a minute and think about it, I have to make a personal call, I’m going to the parking lot and smoke a cigarette and make a personal call. You stay and think about the diagnosis. I’ll be back, but I need to make this call. And smoke a cigarette. I really smoke very few cigarettes, but this is one of those calls, a personal call mind you, but one that almost requires a smoke. Hell, what’d you say, you never smoked a cigarette, right? Right. I’d bet, you make this personal call for me, you’d be smoking 45 seconds in. Anyway, you think about that diagnosis, I have a call to make.”
He was gone, the door closed. The diagnosis floored me, but it did seem to make sense. There, alone in his empty office, I relaxed backinto the overstuffed chair and I called a meeting of all my personalities. I closed my eyes and the cabinet room began to fill up.
First to speak up was Billy Joe, the angry transgendered lesbian.
BJ: “First off, this is bullshit. I think we can all agree on that. Second. I think it’s also bullshit that we even go to therapy. It’s been about 2 years and I sit here listening, quiet, never a fucking word. It’s bullshit. Finally, it’s also bullshit that if he was to write dialog about me, he would use BJ as my name. Bullshit.”
David, a confirmed bachelor, cleared his throat and began with a mumble, “If I may, I said, if I may. Excuse me Billy Joe, but seriously. I think we all need to step back.”
BJ: “You know what Nancy, might be time for you to shut the fuck up.”
Father Johnny Redneck: “Billy Joe, enough now, girl, you calm yourself. This is some serious stuff. This sort of diagnosis, it can change a man.”
David: “They could drug him.”
BJ: “Fine by me, I could use a good high.”
There was a silence in the room, finally, in a bright red dress and outlandish makeup, Octopus Nanny spoke up.
ON: “ You axe me, this shit been all fucked up for long time anyways.”
David: “Speak it sister.”
ON: “Shut your mouth girl. I say we abandon shit fore we get all clogged up with morphine and shit.”
Father Johnny Redneck: “Ship.”
ON: “What you say?”
Father Johnny Redneck: “You said we should done abandon the shit. Honey, you don’t go abandoning no shit, you abandon the damn ship. S H I P.”
ON: “Well, you abandon your own shit sucker. I am leaving. This place is done for. You freaks and (looking at BJ) confused little kitty cats, you stick around and see what happens.”
With that, there was a second of silence, and she was gone. She did not really disappear, and there was no smoke or anything, she was just gone.
Then Barney the Dinosaur said, “Why, I think we should beat it too?”
BJ: “Take off fatso, no big loss.”
David: “’Cept at the dinner table.”
Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, be nice everyone. Everyone should be nice. Nice is how everyone should be.”
David: “Dude, even for a dinosaur, you’re a tard.”
Barney the Dinosaur: “Now, there you go again. Nice is the word of the day everyone. That much I know. That and I am out of here, the game is up, the diagnosis is probably as close to what I would consider…”
At this point Turnpike Lou, who sat in the corner, his back turned to everyone, continuing to wear the dunce cap for the 1417th day in a row, cleared his throat.
BJ: “Hold on. I have an idea. Lets light the dinosaur on fire and roll him through the brain, catch the fat guys attention, then we can make some demands.”
David: “Really, the “light the dinosaur on fire” again routine? Again?”
Barney the Dinosaur: “Been there, done that. Last time, he took those meds that had us all out for days.”
BJ: “Good times.”
David: “I’ll light him, open the portal.”
With that, David lit Barney on fire, BJ opened the portal and he was more or less flushed into the brain of the fat guy.
Wait a minute, I am the fat guy. How did that happen? Does that mean the assorted asshole voices in my head actually refer to me as the fat guy? How can that even be possible? Shouldn’t the voices in my head have a much more positive self image?
The office door opened and the doctor walked in. “Well, that was one fucked up phone call. Sorry, it’s personal and it would cross a lot of ethical lines to even begin to allude to any aspect of it, suffice to say, (dramatic pause) ex-wife. Anyway, the diagnosis for you stands. Let’s meet again, next week, same time.”
He stood, opened the office door, I stood, walked out and left the nondescript office building.
A couple of days later I googled Ardvark University in Omaha. It’s a college for Clowns, Dog Whisperers and Muffler Repair. I believe this will impact the diagnosis.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Changing faces
There are many changes going on in our world, heck even the Republican party finally got rid of the Swastika from its press releases, but change is slow when it comes to publishing because, really, since the printing press, what could really happen?
I have been editing a novel I wrote back in a time when people wrote novels on paper and people read books that were published on paper, but I was too lazy to get it published back in the olden times, so what I have been doing is updating the book for a more modern palette.
Then I saw this.
I have been editing a novel I wrote back in a time when people wrote novels on paper and people read books that were published on paper, but I was too lazy to get it published back in the olden times, so what I have been doing is updating the book for a more modern palette.
Then I saw this.
The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore iPad App Trailer from Moonbot Studios on Vimeo.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Psychopaths I have known
Why just yesterday my little texting device jingled a little bit, alerting me to the fact that a psychopath was trying to communicate with me. It's true, my phone has a special signal for drunks, addicts and assorted other nut jobs and when they text or call, it has a special ring. I like that.
So there I was, in the midst of heated negotiations and the theme music from Hawaii 5-0 started to play from my nearby briefcase. That is the sound that comes from my phone to let me know a psychopath would like to correspond. I was busy, but during a break I checked my messages and there is was, Drunky McDrunkington was texting, out of the blue, saying something drunk-like and that was it.
The remainder of this post has been removed for further editing.
So there I was, in the midst of heated negotiations and the theme music from Hawaii 5-0 started to play from my nearby briefcase. That is the sound that comes from my phone to let me know a psychopath would like to correspond. I was busy, but during a break I checked my messages and there is was, Drunky McDrunkington was texting, out of the blue, saying something drunk-like and that was it.
The remainder of this post has been removed for further editing.
The angry and lazy shall inherit the world
Here is a news story:
"Somebody threw tacks along Highway 30 during the annual Seattle to Portland bicycle ride, The Oregonian reported.
The communications director of the Cascade Bicycle Club told The Oregonian that one rider fell when they hit the tacks and was knocked unconscious. That person was taken to a local hospital.
Other riders reportedly patched their tires or used spare tubes to continue on.
As many as 10,000 people joined the 200-mile ride from Seattle to Portland. The annual event is hosted by the Cascade Bicycle Club."
So, let me get this right, someone upset with cyclists riding from Seattle to Portland threw tacks on the road? Did I get that? Is there a law that gives the death penalty to losers?
As a sometime cyclist, all I can say is a big giant fuck you to the sort of person who believes that tacks on a road is fun or funny. I have seen plenty of angry drivers who somehow think roads are only for cars and trucks. As if cyclists do not pay taxes and also own cars and pay car taxes and buy gas and all the other things that pay for roads.
No, some car drivers think cyclists should be riding wherever they are not.
At some point when the finite oil supply dwindles and gas hovers around 20 dollars a gallon, more and more roads will be converted to cycle only roads and at that point these lazy fat ass morons will be the minority and I can promise you this, not a single cyclist will be putting tacks down on the path dedicated to slow moving shitheads with bad attitudes.
"Somebody threw tacks along Highway 30 during the annual Seattle to Portland bicycle ride, The Oregonian reported.
The communications director of the Cascade Bicycle Club told The Oregonian that one rider fell when they hit the tacks and was knocked unconscious. That person was taken to a local hospital.
Other riders reportedly patched their tires or used spare tubes to continue on.
As many as 10,000 people joined the 200-mile ride from Seattle to Portland. The annual event is hosted by the Cascade Bicycle Club."
So, let me get this right, someone upset with cyclists riding from Seattle to Portland threw tacks on the road? Did I get that? Is there a law that gives the death penalty to losers?
As a sometime cyclist, all I can say is a big giant fuck you to the sort of person who believes that tacks on a road is fun or funny. I have seen plenty of angry drivers who somehow think roads are only for cars and trucks. As if cyclists do not pay taxes and also own cars and pay car taxes and buy gas and all the other things that pay for roads.
No, some car drivers think cyclists should be riding wherever they are not.
At some point when the finite oil supply dwindles and gas hovers around 20 dollars a gallon, more and more roads will be converted to cycle only roads and at that point these lazy fat ass morons will be the minority and I can promise you this, not a single cyclist will be putting tacks down on the path dedicated to slow moving shitheads with bad attitudes.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Blessed be
Somewhere on this blog, if you dig deep enough and read every words, I may have mentioned a cab ride from Amsterdam to Paris. The driver and I bonded in Brussels over wine and sandwiches. He kept taking calls from his daughter, who was on holiday in Spain. At some point, while I was relaxing in the back seat of the Mercedes taxi and he had just finished yet another call from his daughter, I mentioned that it appeared she had him somewhat wrapped around her finger. He asked if I had a daughter, and I said I had two. He said, they wrap us around their fingers, but only because we let them.
Truer words.
I am reminded of that taxi drive more often than most taxi rides I have been on. Although one time in New York the driver started to shoot heroin at a stop light, that was memorable. I'm pretty sure he would not be wrapped around his daughters finger anytime soon.
It's an anniversary of sorts, seems like only yesterday, but trust me, it was a long time ago, this beautiful baby came splurging out of her mother, in no particular hurry, she seemed content, quietly entering the room, no need to make a scene. She stayed quiet for a while, then got cleaned up, had a snack and took a nap. Hard not to like that.
I am reminded of a moment, I am not sure when it was, but Permer, my gay fat lazy cat was with me. I was driving an old Volvo and I was in a hurry. There was an intersection coming up, but I had the right of way, the intersecting roads both had stop signs. As I said, we were in a hurry, not so much Permer, he was sleeping in the passengers seat, but I was monitoring a police radio and there was some sort of bank robbery taking place about 10 blocks from me. I was a reporter for an all news radio station, a bank robbery would get me on the air immediately. As the front of my car entered the intersection, a stupid idiot ran the stop sign on my right and smashed into the front panel of my car, pushing me into the on-coming traffic. I locked up my brakes, the oncoming traffic locked up his brakes, and the stupid idiot who had hit me finally decided to lock up her brakes. I came inches from hitting a large GMC truck head on, thanks to the bone headed moron who ran a stop sign.
I radioed into work, there were no cellphones, and I told them I would not make it to the bank robbery. I realized Permer was no longer on the front seat.
A little history. I hate cats. I really do. I am a dog person, always have been, I will die a dog person. You can bury me with my dog. If I die first, you can have her put down and buried with me, that is how much of a dog person I am. If I have a cat when I die, you can let it run wild, I will not care.
I do not like cats. Of course, that said, Permer was a cat and even then, at the blossoming of our relationship, I already had taken a shine to him. He was lazy, he was fat and he had been a long haired persian, but for whatever reason, now he was shaved bald,. which seemed to ruin what little self esteem he had, and he had gone into a funk that led him to over eat, causing him to get more lazy, making him even fatter, it was, in a couple of words, a vicious cycle.
After the accident, when I realized Permer was no longer in the passengers seat, and my door was hanging open, I thought he may have high tailed it out of there. Cats do shit like that. In a storm, some cats have been known to hail a cab, get to the airport and fly to Cuba. True story.
I looked in the car, he was not there.That meant he had run, was probably already at the airport and soon would be gone for good. I liked Permer so I got pissed off at the stupid shithead who was in such a hurry they had to run a stop sign. I began yelling and telling her what sort of education she must have failed to receive as the police pulled up. Soon enough, miss "I don't stop for posted stop signs" was tickted, insurance information exchanged and everything would be worked out. As the tow trucks began to show up, I realized, again, this time a little more seriously, that Permer had not come back. I went back to my car to grab my police scanner, some equipment, a few notebooks, some illegal weapons and Permer. He was back in the passenger seat, sleeping. You have to admire his audacity.
We walked back to the house I was renting. Actually, I walked back to the house I was renting. I carried equipment, pads, radios, assorted important stuff and a rather large, overweight shaved cat with low self esteem. When we got back to the house, he pissed on my pants, thank you very much.
16 Years ago I cried when that cat died. A few months later this beautiful, perfect baby was born and from then on, I have stopped making babies and focused more on raising them.
Truer words.
I am reminded of that taxi drive more often than most taxi rides I have been on. Although one time in New York the driver started to shoot heroin at a stop light, that was memorable. I'm pretty sure he would not be wrapped around his daughters finger anytime soon.
It's an anniversary of sorts, seems like only yesterday, but trust me, it was a long time ago, this beautiful baby came splurging out of her mother, in no particular hurry, she seemed content, quietly entering the room, no need to make a scene. She stayed quiet for a while, then got cleaned up, had a snack and took a nap. Hard not to like that.
I am reminded of a moment, I am not sure when it was, but Permer, my gay fat lazy cat was with me. I was driving an old Volvo and I was in a hurry. There was an intersection coming up, but I had the right of way, the intersecting roads both had stop signs. As I said, we were in a hurry, not so much Permer, he was sleeping in the passengers seat, but I was monitoring a police radio and there was some sort of bank robbery taking place about 10 blocks from me. I was a reporter for an all news radio station, a bank robbery would get me on the air immediately. As the front of my car entered the intersection, a stupid idiot ran the stop sign on my right and smashed into the front panel of my car, pushing me into the on-coming traffic. I locked up my brakes, the oncoming traffic locked up his brakes, and the stupid idiot who had hit me finally decided to lock up her brakes. I came inches from hitting a large GMC truck head on, thanks to the bone headed moron who ran a stop sign.
I radioed into work, there were no cellphones, and I told them I would not make it to the bank robbery. I realized Permer was no longer on the front seat.
A little history. I hate cats. I really do. I am a dog person, always have been, I will die a dog person. You can bury me with my dog. If I die first, you can have her put down and buried with me, that is how much of a dog person I am. If I have a cat when I die, you can let it run wild, I will not care.
I do not like cats. Of course, that said, Permer was a cat and even then, at the blossoming of our relationship, I already had taken a shine to him. He was lazy, he was fat and he had been a long haired persian, but for whatever reason, now he was shaved bald,. which seemed to ruin what little self esteem he had, and he had gone into a funk that led him to over eat, causing him to get more lazy, making him even fatter, it was, in a couple of words, a vicious cycle.
After the accident, when I realized Permer was no longer in the passengers seat, and my door was hanging open, I thought he may have high tailed it out of there. Cats do shit like that. In a storm, some cats have been known to hail a cab, get to the airport and fly to Cuba. True story.
I looked in the car, he was not there.That meant he had run, was probably already at the airport and soon would be gone for good. I liked Permer so I got pissed off at the stupid shithead who was in such a hurry they had to run a stop sign. I began yelling and telling her what sort of education she must have failed to receive as the police pulled up. Soon enough, miss "I don't stop for posted stop signs" was tickted, insurance information exchanged and everything would be worked out. As the tow trucks began to show up, I realized, again, this time a little more seriously, that Permer had not come back. I went back to my car to grab my police scanner, some equipment, a few notebooks, some illegal weapons and Permer. He was back in the passenger seat, sleeping. You have to admire his audacity.
We walked back to the house I was renting. Actually, I walked back to the house I was renting. I carried equipment, pads, radios, assorted important stuff and a rather large, overweight shaved cat with low self esteem. When we got back to the house, he pissed on my pants, thank you very much.
16 Years ago I cried when that cat died. A few months later this beautiful, perfect baby was born and from then on, I have stopped making babies and focused more on raising them.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Then this happened
On my desk is a pile of papers. Actually, there are two piles. I'm sorry, there are really three. On the left side is a pile of papers that are kind of important, but not so important that I could not put them in the pile on the left. The ones right in front of the keyboard, those are the outstanding bills, one is a car payment, the other a cable bill for $2.24, seems like a waste, but there it is. The paper on the right, those are the important papers, legal stuff, a will that is getting dusty, doctors papers, prescriptions and notations, important things, and then today, more important papers came in the mail, so I opened the envelopes, deemed them important, and put them in the pile. Then I realized, having a pile of important papers that just sits there and does not get my attention does not really mean much, so I knew something must be done.
I had a salad for dinner and thought about my paper work problem. Some of these forms could be life changing, I needed to look them over. Some were just very important, things I should read and understand, but since I had not read them, I probably had failed to understand just how important they probably are.
Many years ago, when I was a young reporter, I was always looking for human interest stories. As much as I liked a good murder or car crash, I had a real love to finding quirky stories and letting people let their freak flag fly.
I met this dumpy Jewish teacher in the Catskills of New York. I was a radio reporter, about to stumble upon what would be the biggest story in the country and one that would last for months and occupy my life for a long time, but until then, I did stories on the people who race pigs and a blind woman who was a bird expert, go figure. Then the short dumpy Jewish man started talking to me at a public meeting and at some point while he was yammering on about some social injustice or another, he mentioned how he had just returned from riding his bicycle across the country.
At that point I had been riding a cycle around the Catskills just because I had an excess amount of energy, but something in this guys zeal for the ride, how he described it in real terms, how at some points he hated it, and a few times he was determined to quit. In the end, he made it. I did the story, is was nothing special, but since that chance meeting, somewhere in my mind I have harbored the plan to ride a cycle across this country.
As things happen, the biggest news story of the time stretched through the summer and I had all sorts of fun with it, and every chance I got to get on my bike, off on the back roads of the Catskills I would go, because in my mind, at some point, me and that bike were going to hit the road and ride back to the west coast.
As luck would have it, around September, the biggest news story in the country had been proven to be fabricated, which meant all that time following silliness and idiocy was wasted, except in the overtime I had earned and the extra income I made selling crappy interviews to the New York Post. About a week after that circus left town, my all news radio station changed format one morning and just like that I was a free man, with money in the bank, a bike and nothing to keep me from leaving. So I left.
I packed up what I would need, which was basically nothing. I put the bike in my car and I drove to New York City to spend the night with my best friend, and then the next day I would ride out of the city and across the nation. I parked my car near my friends apartment, walked to his place, rang the bell, he answered, he walked back to my car with me because I was going to store a couple of boxes of my important stuff at his place, and in the time it took to walk to his door and ring his bell, someone had broken the back window of my car, removed the boxes and my bike and disappeared. All this in broad daylight.
Change of plans.
So, one of the things I realized recently, while I was staring at the vast piles of important papers on my desk is this, I need to ride a bike across this great nation.
Soon.
I had a salad for dinner and thought about my paper work problem. Some of these forms could be life changing, I needed to look them over. Some were just very important, things I should read and understand, but since I had not read them, I probably had failed to understand just how important they probably are.
Many years ago, when I was a young reporter, I was always looking for human interest stories. As much as I liked a good murder or car crash, I had a real love to finding quirky stories and letting people let their freak flag fly.
I met this dumpy Jewish teacher in the Catskills of New York. I was a radio reporter, about to stumble upon what would be the biggest story in the country and one that would last for months and occupy my life for a long time, but until then, I did stories on the people who race pigs and a blind woman who was a bird expert, go figure. Then the short dumpy Jewish man started talking to me at a public meeting and at some point while he was yammering on about some social injustice or another, he mentioned how he had just returned from riding his bicycle across the country.
At that point I had been riding a cycle around the Catskills just because I had an excess amount of energy, but something in this guys zeal for the ride, how he described it in real terms, how at some points he hated it, and a few times he was determined to quit. In the end, he made it. I did the story, is was nothing special, but since that chance meeting, somewhere in my mind I have harbored the plan to ride a cycle across this country.
As things happen, the biggest news story of the time stretched through the summer and I had all sorts of fun with it, and every chance I got to get on my bike, off on the back roads of the Catskills I would go, because in my mind, at some point, me and that bike were going to hit the road and ride back to the west coast.
As luck would have it, around September, the biggest news story in the country had been proven to be fabricated, which meant all that time following silliness and idiocy was wasted, except in the overtime I had earned and the extra income I made selling crappy interviews to the New York Post. About a week after that circus left town, my all news radio station changed format one morning and just like that I was a free man, with money in the bank, a bike and nothing to keep me from leaving. So I left.
I packed up what I would need, which was basically nothing. I put the bike in my car and I drove to New York City to spend the night with my best friend, and then the next day I would ride out of the city and across the nation. I parked my car near my friends apartment, walked to his place, rang the bell, he answered, he walked back to my car with me because I was going to store a couple of boxes of my important stuff at his place, and in the time it took to walk to his door and ring his bell, someone had broken the back window of my car, removed the boxes and my bike and disappeared. All this in broad daylight.
Change of plans.
So, one of the things I realized recently, while I was staring at the vast piles of important papers on my desk is this, I need to ride a bike across this great nation.
Soon.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Human kindness
I have, for at least 20 years, considered myself something of a milkman of human kindness.
Times like these
I am wearing a shirt I exchanged with a young baker in London a few years ago. There is a story behind how I came to exchange my t-shirt with that of a young baker in London, but that is not the point of this post.
No, the point of this post is accomplishment. On some level, I guess, charming the shirt off of a young baker in London is something of an accomplishment, although again, that is not the point. Being in London is the point. Walking the streets of foreign lands. Being a small part of a new culture. Having dinner in a cafe without the ability to understand the menu, nor order a meal, trusting the young baker on a selection worthy of a night out in a strange land.
I have a long running fantasy that plays endlessly like a broken loop inside my head. I am laying on a beach in Italy, the sun is squarely overhead, I am dark and sweating, out of the ocean a beautiful perfect body appears and approaches, Australian I would learn, carrying an ice cold beer, for me no less.
I have never been to Italy.
Then again, my own father had never been to London.
I called my brother last week, breathlessly, because quite honestly, I had been punched in the face and I thought I might need reinforcements. If we are lucky in life, we all have siblings with characteristics that we would like as our own. My brothers sense of calm in almost all situations is one I wish I could borrow. I told him of my most recent tango with a hurricane and he was quiet for a second, and then he asked what could he do to help.
I think, in the midst of any sort of traumatic drama, the only thing one really wants to hear is "what can I do to help."
I had a Chaucer professor in college, who sadly enough, was teaching Shakespeare and because his knowledge of Shakespeare was equal to my knowledge of professional hockey, the class was kind of a bore. Except when we tried to figure out the use of the garden as a metaphor. I forget at this point what brilliant concept we all agreed upon, suffice to say, Chaucer would have been proud. There may have been a point here, but it is lost on me at this time.
No, the point of this post is accomplishment. On some level, I guess, charming the shirt off of a young baker in London is something of an accomplishment, although again, that is not the point. Being in London is the point. Walking the streets of foreign lands. Being a small part of a new culture. Having dinner in a cafe without the ability to understand the menu, nor order a meal, trusting the young baker on a selection worthy of a night out in a strange land.
I have a long running fantasy that plays endlessly like a broken loop inside my head. I am laying on a beach in Italy, the sun is squarely overhead, I am dark and sweating, out of the ocean a beautiful perfect body appears and approaches, Australian I would learn, carrying an ice cold beer, for me no less.
I have never been to Italy.
Then again, my own father had never been to London.
I called my brother last week, breathlessly, because quite honestly, I had been punched in the face and I thought I might need reinforcements. If we are lucky in life, we all have siblings with characteristics that we would like as our own. My brothers sense of calm in almost all situations is one I wish I could borrow. I told him of my most recent tango with a hurricane and he was quiet for a second, and then he asked what could he do to help.
I think, in the midst of any sort of traumatic drama, the only thing one really wants to hear is "what can I do to help."
I had a Chaucer professor in college, who sadly enough, was teaching Shakespeare and because his knowledge of Shakespeare was equal to my knowledge of professional hockey, the class was kind of a bore. Except when we tried to figure out the use of the garden as a metaphor. I forget at this point what brilliant concept we all agreed upon, suffice to say, Chaucer would have been proud. There may have been a point here, but it is lost on me at this time.
Friday, July 1, 2011
A one time thing
As some of you know, here at this blog, we have a strict no edit policy towards the comments. Which often means that the comments may have naughty words, or bad grammar or other intellectually insulting aspects to them that piss some of you off.
Oh well.
To be honest, I hardly ever read the comments, except when ordered to by my dear friend Becky from the heart of the wilderness. Sometimes she will email me and say "someone thinks your dog should run for president." A couple of times she has actually called, which is a lot of work for Becky from the Wilderness, because she has neither a conventional phone, nor a cell phone. She has one of those hippy solar generated phones, that only works at noon, on a sunny day and hardly ever allows for both speaking and listening. She will call and I will hear her faint voice, and she will say, "someone in the comments said you are a fat turd." Usually, her voice will fade, the line will go dead and if I do call back, I get a Grateful Dead song and a computer generated voice that says the voice mail box I am trying to reach has not been set up.
So, other than the comments being factually accurate on occasion, sometimes, especially lately, probably because of the heat of summer, people have been playing a new game called, Who Gets to be FIRST. Now, I have never played this game, but I am guessing the object of the game is to be the very first person on any sort of blog to post the first response. I know, I know, big deal, right? Still, I am getting frantic calls from Becky from the Wilderness, saying that there is a gaggle of nimrods (her words, not mine) trying to just be the first commentator, without so much as an actual comment.
This is what has become of this once great nation. And on this, the Fourth of July BoozeFest Weekend. I am, obviously, already drunk as possible, so I will avoid actually answering Becky from the Wilderness's trouble with First Responders, but I will say this, Max Gentleman has got to stop emailing me.
Lucky me I do not need "organic Cialis" - but Max Gentleman sends me these emails once a day, like clock work. Now, Max, I appreciate your interest in my wang, but as far as I am concerned, my body is my temple, or brothel, depends on the time of day, either way, your services are not needed, but again, the offer is sweet, but unnecessary.
Where was I?
Oh well.
To be honest, I hardly ever read the comments, except when ordered to by my dear friend Becky from the heart of the wilderness. Sometimes she will email me and say "someone thinks your dog should run for president." A couple of times she has actually called, which is a lot of work for Becky from the Wilderness, because she has neither a conventional phone, nor a cell phone. She has one of those hippy solar generated phones, that only works at noon, on a sunny day and hardly ever allows for both speaking and listening. She will call and I will hear her faint voice, and she will say, "someone in the comments said you are a fat turd." Usually, her voice will fade, the line will go dead and if I do call back, I get a Grateful Dead song and a computer generated voice that says the voice mail box I am trying to reach has not been set up.
So, other than the comments being factually accurate on occasion, sometimes, especially lately, probably because of the heat of summer, people have been playing a new game called, Who Gets to be FIRST. Now, I have never played this game, but I am guessing the object of the game is to be the very first person on any sort of blog to post the first response. I know, I know, big deal, right? Still, I am getting frantic calls from Becky from the Wilderness, saying that there is a gaggle of nimrods (her words, not mine) trying to just be the first commentator, without so much as an actual comment.
This is what has become of this once great nation. And on this, the Fourth of July BoozeFest Weekend. I am, obviously, already drunk as possible, so I will avoid actually answering Becky from the Wilderness's trouble with First Responders, but I will say this, Max Gentleman has got to stop emailing me.
Lucky me I do not need "organic Cialis" - but Max Gentleman sends me these emails once a day, like clock work. Now, Max, I appreciate your interest in my wang, but as far as I am concerned, my body is my temple, or brothel, depends on the time of day, either way, your services are not needed, but again, the offer is sweet, but unnecessary.
Where was I?
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