I have discovered a magic coffee shop. It’s about seven miles from my house, so I don’t go there as often as I wished I could. This morning I walked in and immediately noticed there was a bright woman with a medium sized dog. Bright woman had some sort of scrubbed face thing going, it’s a chemical peal or organic fire wash or some other new fangled facial demolition thing that women have been told they need after a certain age.
I stared for a second and got in line for a coffee. A sad man was seated alone and our eyes met and we nodded to one another. I am not a sad man and maybe he spotted the hope that seems to emanate from every pore of my body. I am an eternal optimist, even on bad days, and this was most certainly not a bad day. I nodded again, broke the stare and smiled, turned toward the coffee shops blackboard and pretended to read the varieties of coffee, but I already knew what I wanted.
It’s a slow evolution when you are seeking some sort of peace and truth, even when slowly marching to just order coffee. I made it to the front, ordered a medium drip, added some half and half and sat across from the sad man. His hand laid across the table and I sat my coffee down near it and with my warm free hand I reached out and held his pale hand. He pulled back in an instant, but I held and he quickly gave up.
He looked at me. “What do you want?” I said I wanted nothing, that he looked sad. “No one just looks sad.”
I just stared at him, a big puppy dog, a sad puppy dog stare and he smiled. “OK, but I don’t think I’m sad. Maybe I was just thinking.”
“Were you thinking sad thoughts?” I let go of his hand.
“No. You let go of my hand.”
“I did.”
“Why.”
“I wanted to see if it would make you sad again.” I reached out and held his hand and said nothing, picked up my coffee with my free hand and took a sip. He smiled.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Scary headlines
John McCain: Obama Playing Politics With Anniversary Of Bin Laden’s Death – GOP Reluctantly Taking Cues From Romney – Mitt Romney Tells Otterbein University Students To Borrow Money From Their Parents – House Passes Student Loan Bill That Cuts Women’s Health Program – Newspaper Scolds Readers For Caring Too Much About Burritos…
Friday, April 27, 2012
Marta, the Snickers is gone
This woman I’ve been dating, Marta. Jesus, I don’t even remember how we met. I think it was in a casino. I was shit faced drunk, playing poker and I don’t even know how to play poker, but I’m damn good at it, especially the drunker I get. Marta was sitting next to me, amazed at my winnings and she was maybe as drunk as I was and at some point she said some witty shit like, “a guy like you ain’t married?” and I said, “no woman will have me.”
That was it.
A couple weeks later I found out she was crazy as hell, self medicating on pharmaceuticals she was legally getting from a gay Jew doctor named Klein. He said she was skitzo, but to me, she was just fucked up on the drugs he was giving her. Anyway, I rode over to her house on my bike a few weeks after we met, we had planned to go to dinner, but because I rode my bike up to her front door, she did not hear me arrive, so I opened the unlocked front door and she had a lighter under some aluminum foil and was burning a pill and inhaling the smoke. Smoking some pill. That’s what she was doing, trying to get high.
“What’re you doing?”
“Tryin’ to get high, smoking a pill, ya’ dumbass,” she said.
That was enough to make me start thinking Marta might not be the type of broad I really should be hanging out with. Then, about a month ago, we go out to dinner, me Marta and the doctor Klein and his gay boyfriend, some skinny spic named Johnny. Johnny is all skin and bones and sick looking and at some point while we are waiting for the fajitas in the shittiest Mexican restaurant I’d ever been in, Johnny gets up to use the little boys room and a minute later, Marta has to use to little boys room too, only she says, little girls room, but Johnny has the blurry eyed look like he doesn’t spend a lot of time pissing when he uses the little boys rooms, so I know what’s up.
So when they are both gone, I lean over to gay doctor Klein and I say, what the fuck? He is all fat and shit and he looks at me and says, “what?”
“Those two, they ain’t pissing, they go there to do drugs.”
“So?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s boring waiting for fajitas.”
He was right and all, but there was a moral point to be made, but the fajitas arrived and I was hungry. I did realize later, after we crashed Kleins car into a Blow and Go Donut Shop window that hanging out with Marta had to end.
A few weeks later Marta was in her living room lighting a fire under another piece of aluminum foil and I was in her bedroom, looking at the squalor, food products, skanky clothing, dirty underwear, one pair in the corner being chewed by an obese mouse and I thought to myself “how did I get here?” and I answered that in my head, a bike. That’s when I realized that I could put my shoes on, grab my bike bag and slip out the back door and be done with all this bullshit. Before leaving I needed to steal something, because that is my twisted little kink, I always steal something from my ending relationship, so I looked around. On the dresser, an unopened Snickers bar, I grabbed it, put it in my bike bag and opened the back screen door, which had one of those squeaky springs on it, so I slowly pushed it so it would not get the attention of the Marta, who was still busy burning her pill into smoke form. Soon enough I was on my bike, in the gravel of her driveway and that must of got her moving, because she was pushing open the back screen door, then running out of it, onto the gravel and chasing after me, throwing bottles of various unused pharmaceuticals. I started to pedal as fast as I could while these bottles were starting to land near me, one hit my bag but slid off, and as I distanced myself, I could hear Marta’s last words, “bring back my fuckin’ Snicker’s you douche bag.”
That was it.
A couple weeks later I found out she was crazy as hell, self medicating on pharmaceuticals she was legally getting from a gay Jew doctor named Klein. He said she was skitzo, but to me, she was just fucked up on the drugs he was giving her. Anyway, I rode over to her house on my bike a few weeks after we met, we had planned to go to dinner, but because I rode my bike up to her front door, she did not hear me arrive, so I opened the unlocked front door and she had a lighter under some aluminum foil and was burning a pill and inhaling the smoke. Smoking some pill. That’s what she was doing, trying to get high.
“What’re you doing?”
“Tryin’ to get high, smoking a pill, ya’ dumbass,” she said.
That was enough to make me start thinking Marta might not be the type of broad I really should be hanging out with. Then, about a month ago, we go out to dinner, me Marta and the doctor Klein and his gay boyfriend, some skinny spic named Johnny. Johnny is all skin and bones and sick looking and at some point while we are waiting for the fajitas in the shittiest Mexican restaurant I’d ever been in, Johnny gets up to use the little boys room and a minute later, Marta has to use to little boys room too, only she says, little girls room, but Johnny has the blurry eyed look like he doesn’t spend a lot of time pissing when he uses the little boys rooms, so I know what’s up.
So when they are both gone, I lean over to gay doctor Klein and I say, what the fuck? He is all fat and shit and he looks at me and says, “what?”
“Those two, they ain’t pissing, they go there to do drugs.”
“So?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s boring waiting for fajitas.”
He was right and all, but there was a moral point to be made, but the fajitas arrived and I was hungry. I did realize later, after we crashed Kleins car into a Blow and Go Donut Shop window that hanging out with Marta had to end.
A few weeks later Marta was in her living room lighting a fire under another piece of aluminum foil and I was in her bedroom, looking at the squalor, food products, skanky clothing, dirty underwear, one pair in the corner being chewed by an obese mouse and I thought to myself “how did I get here?” and I answered that in my head, a bike. That’s when I realized that I could put my shoes on, grab my bike bag and slip out the back door and be done with all this bullshit. Before leaving I needed to steal something, because that is my twisted little kink, I always steal something from my ending relationship, so I looked around. On the dresser, an unopened Snickers bar, I grabbed it, put it in my bike bag and opened the back screen door, which had one of those squeaky springs on it, so I slowly pushed it so it would not get the attention of the Marta, who was still busy burning her pill into smoke form. Soon enough I was on my bike, in the gravel of her driveway and that must of got her moving, because she was pushing open the back screen door, then running out of it, onto the gravel and chasing after me, throwing bottles of various unused pharmaceuticals. I started to pedal as fast as I could while these bottles were starting to land near me, one hit my bag but slid off, and as I distanced myself, I could hear Marta’s last words, “bring back my fuckin’ Snicker’s you douche bag.”
Monday, April 23, 2012
Gay fish
We have one of those fish that eats other fish, I am not sure what the official name is, I believe it is something like Chewbacha, but I may be wrong. I get confused a lot lately because I accidentally watched a Tom Cruise movie recently and now I want to kill myself.
The point being, this Chewbacha fish is a natural killer and for years we have motored up to our local pet store and purchased ten to fifteen perfectly healthy goldfish and one by one we would offer it up to the Chewbacha fish in a morning ritual that was both sadistic and entertaining. The ever growing Chewbacha fish would pretend to not be interested at first, for about a second, allowing the neurotic and distant goldfish to at once realize it was in a much larger home and also a pretty nice place and then, without warning or provocation, it would be eaten.
Just like that.
This went on daily for the better part of 3 years. The Chewbacha fish, again, I am not clear on that being its official, you know, biological name, has grown from fairly meaningless kind of small awkward killer, to a more sublime, rather larger and dominating presence in my daughters bedroom. Of course, this would be the daughter who has moved thousands of miles away for fear of her very life from the now completely threatening Chewbacha fish, leaving me, a self proclaimed sissy to feed and care for this grumpy bully.
Which has made the giant Chewbacha fishes recent change all the more dramatic. In the last month or so, I have introduced not one and not 10, but maybe 7 medium sized gold fish into the deadly Chewbacha fish’s aquarium. He has befriended most of them, one committed suicide once it realized it was in an aquarium with a giant gold fish eating Chewbacha fish and another seemed to die from either early onset Alzheimers or just plain stupidity because he drowned.
Anyway, the dreaded Chewbacha fish is now shockingly an avowed vegetarian. I know, who would have seen that coming, right?
So, here is my dilemma. I have never really much enjoyed the Giant and deadly exploits of the Chewbacha fish, although watching it slither up behind a completely compliant goldfish, open its wildly flexible mouth and engulf it in one quick gulp is always fun, since the Chewbacha has stopped doing that, he is boring. Although, to be honest, he is not half as boring as the goldfish. I don’t want to insult anyone, but goldfish are gay. There, I said it.
So, if the giant Chewbacha does not soon leave vegetarianism behind and go one some sort of cannibalistic rampage, or the idiotic gay goldfish can’t find it amongst themselves to put together a plan to both capture, kill and eat the giant Chewbacha fish in a very entertaining manner, I am going to have to find a way to get rid of all of these fish myself.
I guess that’s my true dilemma. Then again, Sushi is not a complicated meal.
The point being, this Chewbacha fish is a natural killer and for years we have motored up to our local pet store and purchased ten to fifteen perfectly healthy goldfish and one by one we would offer it up to the Chewbacha fish in a morning ritual that was both sadistic and entertaining. The ever growing Chewbacha fish would pretend to not be interested at first, for about a second, allowing the neurotic and distant goldfish to at once realize it was in a much larger home and also a pretty nice place and then, without warning or provocation, it would be eaten.
Just like that.
This went on daily for the better part of 3 years. The Chewbacha fish, again, I am not clear on that being its official, you know, biological name, has grown from fairly meaningless kind of small awkward killer, to a more sublime, rather larger and dominating presence in my daughters bedroom. Of course, this would be the daughter who has moved thousands of miles away for fear of her very life from the now completely threatening Chewbacha fish, leaving me, a self proclaimed sissy to feed and care for this grumpy bully.
Which has made the giant Chewbacha fishes recent change all the more dramatic. In the last month or so, I have introduced not one and not 10, but maybe 7 medium sized gold fish into the deadly Chewbacha fish’s aquarium. He has befriended most of them, one committed suicide once it realized it was in an aquarium with a giant gold fish eating Chewbacha fish and another seemed to die from either early onset Alzheimers or just plain stupidity because he drowned.
Anyway, the dreaded Chewbacha fish is now shockingly an avowed vegetarian. I know, who would have seen that coming, right?
So, here is my dilemma. I have never really much enjoyed the Giant and deadly exploits of the Chewbacha fish, although watching it slither up behind a completely compliant goldfish, open its wildly flexible mouth and engulf it in one quick gulp is always fun, since the Chewbacha has stopped doing that, he is boring. Although, to be honest, he is not half as boring as the goldfish. I don’t want to insult anyone, but goldfish are gay. There, I said it.
So, if the giant Chewbacha does not soon leave vegetarianism behind and go one some sort of cannibalistic rampage, or the idiotic gay goldfish can’t find it amongst themselves to put together a plan to both capture, kill and eat the giant Chewbacha fish in a very entertaining manner, I am going to have to find a way to get rid of all of these fish myself.
I guess that’s my true dilemma. Then again, Sushi is not a complicated meal.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Sticker in Italy
You could/should be part of the world wide sticking fun-fest, but of course, that would require clicking here and then actually ordering some free stickers, stickering them around your city, town or prison cell and then waiting and waiting and waiting all in the hopes of winning a life changing iPad or a date with world super model and lesbian Beth Libitard, I know, that's a new one. It's all true, some lucky schmuck will with a night in heaven, or at least a flea dip, with Harvard educated lawyer and all around bitch Beth Libitard, she of The Tails of Beth Libitard, which according to Fox News is a book.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Pasta Gonzole
So, what's that you've been saying? You would like to get yourself some stickers and join the sticker army, those people who are seemingly everywhere, putting stickers almost anywhere that they do not belong?
OK. Click here for the sticker sign up place, order them and then go to it.
Until then, enjoy this kind of amazing sticker from Italy.
Oh, and if you want to know what happens when a jerk wad posts a sticker where it does not belong and someone has to remove it, click here.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The stickering of Europe
Here you go, this crazy stickering this has spread to Italy. Want in on it? Click here and get yourself some of these and send in some pictures, win yourself an iPad and everything in your life will be so much better.
An iPad can make blueberry gluten free pancakes. It can tell you were to find the batteries. It will clean your teeth. It also will screen you at the airport so you can motor right past security.
How can you get one? Click.
Now, a sticker arrivers in Florence.
An iPad can make blueberry gluten free pancakes. It can tell you were to find the batteries. It will clean your teeth. It also will screen you at the airport so you can motor right past security.
How can you get one? Click.
Now, a sticker arrivers in Florence.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Today I believe
If you are a stickering bozo, and really who isn’t right now? But if you aren’t, you should be, because lately, the people in the mail room have been sending out unsigned letters from our legal team that I am led to believe are both sad and poignant.
Not sure what all this stickering is about? Order some stickers here, then send in some pictures of places you have peacefully placed a sticker and soon enough in some sort of zen way, everything will become known. That or you could win a new iPad. Probably the Zen thing is what will happen.
Finally, and this is only because there is not a quorum, because of all the things I choose not to believe in and some of those include flying giraffes, the straightness of Tim Tebow and the new invention of gluten free cinnamon buns, I am just going to continue to not believe in gay marriage. In fact, and I did clear this with legal, from now on I don’t believe in marriage at all. So to all my married friends, screw you, you are no longer Mr and Mrs anything, you are Bill and Becky and Bob and Becky and Billbo and Becky because today I stopped believing.
Not sure what all this stickering is about? Order some stickers here, then send in some pictures of places you have peacefully placed a sticker and soon enough in some sort of zen way, everything will become known. That or you could win a new iPad. Probably the Zen thing is what will happen.
Finally, and this is only because there is not a quorum, because of all the things I choose not to believe in and some of those include flying giraffes, the straightness of Tim Tebow and the new invention of gluten free cinnamon buns, I am just going to continue to not believe in gay marriage. In fact, and I did clear this with legal, from now on I don’t believe in marriage at all. So to all my married friends, screw you, you are no longer Mr and Mrs anything, you are Bill and Becky and Bob and Becky and Billbo and Becky because today I stopped believing.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Parenting is not a job
This Anne Romney dust up has me thinking, what if someone who was one of those stay at home types and actually came clean and said, you know what, I’ve been in the workplace and I’ve been a stay at home parent and the jobs are not equal, going to a job and earning a paycheck is a million times harder than staying home with kids.
I wonder what would happen then.
I often tell my son that when I was in my late teens/early twenties I worked in Southern California as a landscape laborer. I was the lowest employee on a pretty low totem pole. I dug holes for one gallon plants to fit into. The ground in much of Southern California in the summer time can feel like rock, especially if you spend every single day trying to dig holes for one gallon plants. That may have been the worst job I ever had. I kept it because I needed the money for rent and food and gas for my old car. At the end of every day and at any point during every work day, I would dip my hands in buckets of ice to relieve the pain and soreness. That was a job I hated, but it was work and it paid me money.
My wife and I had a son in 1990 and I injured a bone in my spine in a bike accident in Alaska. I returned to Seattle for medical treatment, she was working for a biotechnology company and as my treatment wore on, at some point it became obvious that we had switched roles, she the main breadwinner, me the stay at home parent. I picked up a job that allowed me to work out of our home while also being home with our son and his baby sister. This arrangement stayed in place when the baby sister somehow managed to acquire a baby sister of her own. That meant that in the span of just a few short years I had gone from full time journalist to all time stay at home father to three children all under the age of 5.
Guess what I learned? Easiest job I ever had.
Easier than digging holes in the Southern California desert. Easier than trying to find stories in boring small towns in Southeast Alaska. Easier than chasing mind numbingly idiotic politicians around New York State. Easier than anything I had ever done to earn an actual living. Our days were basically glorious. We painted and swam, we walked and rode bikes. We napped, my lord, we napped. Yes, you people in your cubicles, talking endlessly on your headphones trying to close a sale or offer advice to people needing technical advice without the least ability to understand it, my children and I napped on a daily basis, sometimes more than once.
We cooked dinners too. Sometimes we cooked great dinners, but sometimes we threw together simple salads and ordered pizza. Often times, and this is another dirty secret, when my wife got home from a hard day of actually working, I would hand the kids off to her and go for a bike ride, or just a walk, or some other alone activity to “clear my head” because I had been “burdened” with the kids all day.
I think one of the reasons people like to think that the “mothers job is so hard” is because mothers are great PR machines. As children, when we would return home from school, our mothers would say things like, “oh I have been busy all day, cleaning and washing and making you a snack,” and we never really bothered to ask how long a peanut butter sandwich took to actually make. No, as adults we are amazed that out long suffering mothers had the time to make us these amazing snacks on a daily basis, as if it were a miracle to somehow come up with enough time to put some sort of spread on one side of bread, some peanut butter on another and push them together.
As a stay at home father I did take the time to make my children healthy snacks, often times creating plates of fresh fruits mixed with cut veggies and a bagel. The plates would even have a presentation value, everything looked perfect. Actual time it took to do it all, including picking the fresh plums from our front yard tree? Five minutes maybe. As they aged I started making healthy cookies for the kids, so when they came home from school they would have a warm cookie, except these did not have refined sugars, but instead they had granola and natural peanut butter, little healthy miracles in each bite. At the most, these took 15 minutes to make and 10-15 more for baking time.
I get it, parenting is not easy, but it’s not a job, it’s not a full time gig, it’s not equal to a wage earning, office working, sore hand making job sort of job. Stop being silly. Hanging out with your own kids is a blessing, it’s a gift to be able to stay home and raise your own kids in any way you see fit, it’s a joy to paint and ride bikes and play with your kids, kick soccer balls and play catch and yes, nap when you get tired. But it’s no where near a job.
I wonder what would happen then.
I often tell my son that when I was in my late teens/early twenties I worked in Southern California as a landscape laborer. I was the lowest employee on a pretty low totem pole. I dug holes for one gallon plants to fit into. The ground in much of Southern California in the summer time can feel like rock, especially if you spend every single day trying to dig holes for one gallon plants. That may have been the worst job I ever had. I kept it because I needed the money for rent and food and gas for my old car. At the end of every day and at any point during every work day, I would dip my hands in buckets of ice to relieve the pain and soreness. That was a job I hated, but it was work and it paid me money.
My wife and I had a son in 1990 and I injured a bone in my spine in a bike accident in Alaska. I returned to Seattle for medical treatment, she was working for a biotechnology company and as my treatment wore on, at some point it became obvious that we had switched roles, she the main breadwinner, me the stay at home parent. I picked up a job that allowed me to work out of our home while also being home with our son and his baby sister. This arrangement stayed in place when the baby sister somehow managed to acquire a baby sister of her own. That meant that in the span of just a few short years I had gone from full time journalist to all time stay at home father to three children all under the age of 5.
Guess what I learned? Easiest job I ever had.
Easier than digging holes in the Southern California desert. Easier than trying to find stories in boring small towns in Southeast Alaska. Easier than chasing mind numbingly idiotic politicians around New York State. Easier than anything I had ever done to earn an actual living. Our days were basically glorious. We painted and swam, we walked and rode bikes. We napped, my lord, we napped. Yes, you people in your cubicles, talking endlessly on your headphones trying to close a sale or offer advice to people needing technical advice without the least ability to understand it, my children and I napped on a daily basis, sometimes more than once.
We cooked dinners too. Sometimes we cooked great dinners, but sometimes we threw together simple salads and ordered pizza. Often times, and this is another dirty secret, when my wife got home from a hard day of actually working, I would hand the kids off to her and go for a bike ride, or just a walk, or some other alone activity to “clear my head” because I had been “burdened” with the kids all day.
I think one of the reasons people like to think that the “mothers job is so hard” is because mothers are great PR machines. As children, when we would return home from school, our mothers would say things like, “oh I have been busy all day, cleaning and washing and making you a snack,” and we never really bothered to ask how long a peanut butter sandwich took to actually make. No, as adults we are amazed that out long suffering mothers had the time to make us these amazing snacks on a daily basis, as if it were a miracle to somehow come up with enough time to put some sort of spread on one side of bread, some peanut butter on another and push them together.
As a stay at home father I did take the time to make my children healthy snacks, often times creating plates of fresh fruits mixed with cut veggies and a bagel. The plates would even have a presentation value, everything looked perfect. Actual time it took to do it all, including picking the fresh plums from our front yard tree? Five minutes maybe. As they aged I started making healthy cookies for the kids, so when they came home from school they would have a warm cookie, except these did not have refined sugars, but instead they had granola and natural peanut butter, little healthy miracles in each bite. At the most, these took 15 minutes to make and 10-15 more for baking time.
I get it, parenting is not easy, but it’s not a job, it’s not a full time gig, it’s not equal to a wage earning, office working, sore hand making job sort of job. Stop being silly. Hanging out with your own kids is a blessing, it’s a gift to be able to stay home and raise your own kids in any way you see fit, it’s a joy to paint and ride bikes and play with your kids, kick soccer balls and play catch and yes, nap when you get tired. But it’s no where near a job.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Cash payment
My good friend Leo the Toe Breaker was telling me a funny story about people who don't always like to pay for the stuff they use, and then I started thinking, there are literally thousands of people who read this blog and maybe 10 have clicked on the "donate" button.
Now for years Leo the Toe Breaker has just been a friend who helps me when I am going through a bad breakup, or dealing with people who crash my car they borrowed and then find it unnecessary that they pay for the damages, using the fun phrase-"you should't have lent it to me in the first place."
Thanks Leo.
So, I'm not making a threat or anything, but if you just use your little mouse thing and roll down this page you will see a "donate" sign and pretty much anyone can click on that and pay whatever they want to hang out, be entertained and sometimes, rarely, get some sort of profound thing of some sort.
Yeah, Leo just said, "be a good idea to check out that donate thing."
See what I mean?
Now for years Leo the Toe Breaker has just been a friend who helps me when I am going through a bad breakup, or dealing with people who crash my car they borrowed and then find it unnecessary that they pay for the damages, using the fun phrase-"you should't have lent it to me in the first place."
Thanks Leo.
So, I'm not making a threat or anything, but if you just use your little mouse thing and roll down this page you will see a "donate" sign and pretty much anyone can click on that and pay whatever they want to hang out, be entertained and sometimes, rarely, get some sort of profound thing of some sort.
Yeah, Leo just said, "be a good idea to check out that donate thing."
See what I mean?
2 Favorite headlines of the day
Anti-Gay Marriage Group Gets Hacked, Vaginal Orgasms Do Exist, Researchers Claim
Sticker update from Andre the Giant
I'm not sure I plug the sticker drama on this blog as much as I do on the variety of other blogs I am currently trashing. Here, a photo of a sticker ruining an otherwise beautiful Andre the Giant sticker.
Want to have some fun with stickers? Click here and join the fun, you get a few stickers, you put then in places that could get you in trouble and take a picture, then it ends up online and sooner or later someone will probably with an iPad. See how easy that was?
Want to have some fun with stickers? Click here and join the fun, you get a few stickers, you put then in places that could get you in trouble and take a picture, then it ends up online and sooner or later someone will probably with an iPad. See how easy that was?
Santorum spreads out, Gingrich happy
With Santorum leaving the race to spend more time taking care of his family, being a good conservative and worshiping Satan, everyone is now looking at naughty Newt Gingrich to drop out. No one, except the porcine former speaker, thinks anyone but magic underwear wearing Mitt Romney will win the Republican nomination.
I thought it was time to call the Pennsylvania office of the Gingrich campaign and see if the staff still believes in the pasty white candidates chances and really, just to see how they are holding up since the states primary is coming up in a week or so.
“Carl’s donut hole, can I take your order?”
“I’m sorry, I have the wrong number.”
That happens to me all the time. I plug in a number in my cellphone and save it as something important, like Newt Gingrich Pennsylvania Campaign office, when in fact it is probably a gluten free donut shop I stopped at in Philadelphia three weeks ago. I tried again.
“Carl’s donut hole, can I take your order?”
“I’m sorry, I was trying to reach the Gingrich Pennsylvania Campaign office.”
“Yeah, hang on.” He set the phone down, or something. Then, the same guy who answered the phone five seconds before picked it up and said, “Newt Gingrich, future president of these United States Pennsylvania field office, how may we help you support the future president?”
“So what you are saying is that you are both a donut shop and the Gingrich Pennsylvania office?”
“Yes sir. How may I help you?”
“Do you sell gluten free donuts?”
“Fuck no, what sort of donuts would those be? Yikes, those would taste like crap.”
“Not true, there’s a place in Philadelphia that makes great gluten free donuts.”
“Yeah, Philadelphia, like anyone wants to go there for anything, not even donuts.”
“Well, where are you located?”
“We are deep in the dairy farm country, about 150 miles west of Philadelphia.”
“Donut business doing well?”
“No complaints.”
“That’s good. How about the Gingrich business, you get a lot of calls?”
“Yours would be the first.”
“No shit?”
“Seriously.”
“Wow, it makes me wonder why Newt is still in the race.”
“He is waiting for Tampa sir, where he plans to steal the nomination from the Massachusetts tax and spend liberal.”
“So you are a Gingrich supporter?”
“Not at all, but he is a donut loving sort of politician and for that alone we love him.”
“Well, thanks again for taking the time talking to me.”
“Thank you for calling Carl’s Donut Hole, uh, I mean, we hear at the Gingrich campaign want to thank you for you continued support.”
I thought it was time to call the Pennsylvania office of the Gingrich campaign and see if the staff still believes in the pasty white candidates chances and really, just to see how they are holding up since the states primary is coming up in a week or so.
“Carl’s donut hole, can I take your order?”
“I’m sorry, I have the wrong number.”
That happens to me all the time. I plug in a number in my cellphone and save it as something important, like Newt Gingrich Pennsylvania Campaign office, when in fact it is probably a gluten free donut shop I stopped at in Philadelphia three weeks ago. I tried again.
“Carl’s donut hole, can I take your order?”
“I’m sorry, I was trying to reach the Gingrich Pennsylvania Campaign office.”
“Yeah, hang on.” He set the phone down, or something. Then, the same guy who answered the phone five seconds before picked it up and said, “Newt Gingrich, future president of these United States Pennsylvania field office, how may we help you support the future president?”
“So what you are saying is that you are both a donut shop and the Gingrich Pennsylvania office?”
“Yes sir. How may I help you?”
“Do you sell gluten free donuts?”
“Fuck no, what sort of donuts would those be? Yikes, those would taste like crap.”
“Not true, there’s a place in Philadelphia that makes great gluten free donuts.”
“Yeah, Philadelphia, like anyone wants to go there for anything, not even donuts.”
“Well, where are you located?”
“We are deep in the dairy farm country, about 150 miles west of Philadelphia.”
“Donut business doing well?”
“No complaints.”
“That’s good. How about the Gingrich business, you get a lot of calls?”
“Yours would be the first.”
“No shit?”
“Seriously.”
“Wow, it makes me wonder why Newt is still in the race.”
“He is waiting for Tampa sir, where he plans to steal the nomination from the Massachusetts tax and spend liberal.”
“So you are a Gingrich supporter?”
“Not at all, but he is a donut loving sort of politician and for that alone we love him.”
“Well, thanks again for taking the time talking to me.”
“Thank you for calling Carl’s Donut Hole, uh, I mean, we hear at the Gingrich campaign want to thank you for you continued support.”
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Meerkating
We went Meerkating in Ohio and I am just a little bit ashamed to admit that.
If you don't Meerkat, you should really sit yourself down and think for a second and ask yourself why you don't. Once you have convinced yourself to give it a shot, remember to grab a digital camera and a willing person who will document it.
Go here.
If you don't Meerkat, you should really sit yourself down and think for a second and ask yourself why you don't. Once you have convinced yourself to give it a shot, remember to grab a digital camera and a willing person who will document it.
Go here.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
A hot ride on a cool Sunday
The knock on the door was expected. I was wearing old bike shorts, a pair I had crashed in at some point in history, I know this because there are holes in the left side, around my hip and some small ones on my thigh, where I must have hit the pavement. They still hold together, so I still wear them when I ride.
For me, cycling has become something of an endurance test. I have crashed numerous cycles many times and for the time being I am still fairly healthy. So I continue to cycle because it is my addiction. I did try a couple of meetings at CA (Cyclists Anonymous) but the cigarette smoke was bothersome and the tales of drug addiction and childhood sexual abuse was too much drama for me to handle, so I got on my bike and rode home.
The knock at the door was my dear friend Professor TMI, of Ohio Professor TMI, the same Professor of whom I somehow offended by making a racist remark at a Martin Luther King memorial ceremony at Kent State University. My bad. This morning the professor looked like a young Lance Armstrong, tight bright uniform and muscles all primed and ready. I grabbed my bike.
A month or so ago we discovered that if you carefully mind the roads in my ghetto for about a mile and then head up a nearby 2 mile mountain, you will be delivered onto about 30 miles of lush farmland. We headed for the farmland. Professor TMI is a true road cyclist and I am no longer a serious road cyclist, so 2 mile mountain climbs are really no longer of much interest to me.
When I lived in the Pacific Northwest our house was on a very steep mountain, you had to drive up a mile of steep hill to get to it. When I started serious cycling I would have to climb that mile at the end of every ride and some rides were well over 100 miles long. I thought about that mountain as I pedaled my way past Professor TMI midway up the 2 mile mountain this morning. I may be out of shape for road riding, but I am a competitive jerk and I have been indoor riding all winter. Overtaking the Professor set in motion what would become a give and take 37 mile road race that was neither pretty or fair.
After being overtaken a few times and after finding ways to over take the always spinning Professor TMI, at mile 17 there is a home under construction and an Porta-Potty out front that is not locked. I motioned to Professor TMI that I’d like to stop and since I was in the lead at that point, we both pulled over into the gravel that would someday be a paved driveway. I set my bike down and went into the Porta-Potty and did what I had to do. When I was done I walked out and Professor TMI went in and that’s when I got back on my bike and started riding away.
About 3 miles later I was passed my Professor TMI and I would not catch up again until I was home. A serious cyclist, when challenged can do amazing things.
For me, cycling has become something of an endurance test. I have crashed numerous cycles many times and for the time being I am still fairly healthy. So I continue to cycle because it is my addiction. I did try a couple of meetings at CA (Cyclists Anonymous) but the cigarette smoke was bothersome and the tales of drug addiction and childhood sexual abuse was too much drama for me to handle, so I got on my bike and rode home.
The knock at the door was my dear friend Professor TMI, of Ohio Professor TMI, the same Professor of whom I somehow offended by making a racist remark at a Martin Luther King memorial ceremony at Kent State University. My bad. This morning the professor looked like a young Lance Armstrong, tight bright uniform and muscles all primed and ready. I grabbed my bike.
A month or so ago we discovered that if you carefully mind the roads in my ghetto for about a mile and then head up a nearby 2 mile mountain, you will be delivered onto about 30 miles of lush farmland. We headed for the farmland. Professor TMI is a true road cyclist and I am no longer a serious road cyclist, so 2 mile mountain climbs are really no longer of much interest to me.
When I lived in the Pacific Northwest our house was on a very steep mountain, you had to drive up a mile of steep hill to get to it. When I started serious cycling I would have to climb that mile at the end of every ride and some rides were well over 100 miles long. I thought about that mountain as I pedaled my way past Professor TMI midway up the 2 mile mountain this morning. I may be out of shape for road riding, but I am a competitive jerk and I have been indoor riding all winter. Overtaking the Professor set in motion what would become a give and take 37 mile road race that was neither pretty or fair.
After being overtaken a few times and after finding ways to over take the always spinning Professor TMI, at mile 17 there is a home under construction and an Porta-Potty out front that is not locked. I motioned to Professor TMI that I’d like to stop and since I was in the lead at that point, we both pulled over into the gravel that would someday be a paved driveway. I set my bike down and went into the Porta-Potty and did what I had to do. When I was done I walked out and Professor TMI went in and that’s when I got back on my bike and started riding away.
About 3 miles later I was passed my Professor TMI and I would not catch up again until I was home. A serious cyclist, when challenged can do amazing things.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
A very good healthcare system
Actual phone call:
Them: “Hello, Shitty Insurance Company,(not the companies real name) how may I help you?”
Me: “Yes, I am calling about a prescription I recently brought to the Pharmacy to have filled. Apparently it was refused by you, my insurance company.”
Them: “I can look into that for you, what is your plan number. (I give him the number) I see it was for a non-generic drug that you have not used before, is that correct?”
“Me: “I think so, I am not sure what this drug is.”
Them: “Do you know why is was prescribed?”
Me: “Not really, I am not a doctor.”
Them: “Well, then, maybe it’s not really necessary if you can’t even tell me why it’s was prescribed in the first place.”
Me: “Are you a doctor?”
Them: “No, why do you ask?”
Me: “Well, how could you make any decision on whether it is necessary if you are not a medical professional?”
Them: “I am not making a decision sir, I am just saying, if you can’t even justify the use of this new, non-generic drug, then how can you expect us to pay for it?”
Me: “Because my doctor, who is a certified medical professional, prescribed it, because she thought it was necessary for my long term health.”
Them: “Do you have any idea how much this particular drug costs?”
Me: “I do not.”
Them: “It’s quite expensive sir. Did you know your doctor could have prescribed a generic drug that is in the same category as this drug, that would be much less expensive.”
Me: “Again, I am not the person doing the prescribing. I just go to my doctor when I am ailing and I hope and pray she does the magic doctor dance that doctors do, and then I get better and I can ride my bike again.”
Them: “Yes sir, I understand, but you must understand that we, as a company, can not just pay for every expensive medicine that is on the market when there are plenty of other options available that do pretty much what the more expensive medicines do, for a lot less money.”
Me: “So now you are a drug interaction expert?”
Them: “Not at all, I am just saying, it has been my experience that a lot of doctors get caught up in using the latest medicines when they could just as easily rely on a trusted medicine that is available in generic form, at a much more discounted price.”
Me: “But that is not the case this time.”
Them: “According to your doctor it is not, but in our opinion, she could have used a generic.”
Me: “I thought we already decided that your opinion was one that is not a medical professional opinion.”
Them: “That is true, but that is not to say we do not have trained doctors on staff to make decisions on prescription drugs and what is being prescribed to patients.”
Me: “Oh, then could you put one of those medical experts on the phone so I could hear how he or she decided that this prescription my doctor wrote for me is not the one I really need.”
Them: “Those people are not in the same building as us.”
Me: “Convenient how that works.”
Them: “I’m sorry?”
Me: “Of course. So when this medical prescription expert turned my doctors recommendation down, you realize that your brilliant expert did not recommend anything else, right? That while I have been waiting for a few days for you, my insurance company, to decide that this prescription was unworthy, and then you don’t leave me with any other options, I am just left hanging. This expert on your end just decides that because there is no generic drug that matches my prescription, I am undeserving of this drug at all, do I have that right.”
Them: “I did not say that.”
Me: “You did not have to. So what am I supposed to do at this point?”
Them: “Have you contacted your doctor?”
Me: “Yes.”
Them: “What did she say?”
Me: “I believe she said you people are all shallow, greedy assholes.”
Them: “Of course sir, and did she write a different prescription?”
Me: “No, she actually had me come in and she gave me samples from the drug company, because she thinks it’s important that I use the drug that she prescribed, weird how that works.”
Them: “Is there anything else I can help you with today sir?”
Me: “Doubtful.”
Them: “Hello, Shitty Insurance Company,(not the companies real name) how may I help you?”
Me: “Yes, I am calling about a prescription I recently brought to the Pharmacy to have filled. Apparently it was refused by you, my insurance company.”
Them: “I can look into that for you, what is your plan number. (I give him the number) I see it was for a non-generic drug that you have not used before, is that correct?”
“Me: “I think so, I am not sure what this drug is.”
Them: “Do you know why is was prescribed?”
Me: “Not really, I am not a doctor.”
Them: “Well, then, maybe it’s not really necessary if you can’t even tell me why it’s was prescribed in the first place.”
Me: “Are you a doctor?”
Them: “No, why do you ask?”
Me: “Well, how could you make any decision on whether it is necessary if you are not a medical professional?”
Them: “I am not making a decision sir, I am just saying, if you can’t even justify the use of this new, non-generic drug, then how can you expect us to pay for it?”
Me: “Because my doctor, who is a certified medical professional, prescribed it, because she thought it was necessary for my long term health.”
Them: “Do you have any idea how much this particular drug costs?”
Me: “I do not.”
Them: “It’s quite expensive sir. Did you know your doctor could have prescribed a generic drug that is in the same category as this drug, that would be much less expensive.”
Me: “Again, I am not the person doing the prescribing. I just go to my doctor when I am ailing and I hope and pray she does the magic doctor dance that doctors do, and then I get better and I can ride my bike again.”
Them: “Yes sir, I understand, but you must understand that we, as a company, can not just pay for every expensive medicine that is on the market when there are plenty of other options available that do pretty much what the more expensive medicines do, for a lot less money.”
Me: “So now you are a drug interaction expert?”
Them: “Not at all, I am just saying, it has been my experience that a lot of doctors get caught up in using the latest medicines when they could just as easily rely on a trusted medicine that is available in generic form, at a much more discounted price.”
Me: “But that is not the case this time.”
Them: “According to your doctor it is not, but in our opinion, she could have used a generic.”
Me: “I thought we already decided that your opinion was one that is not a medical professional opinion.”
Them: “That is true, but that is not to say we do not have trained doctors on staff to make decisions on prescription drugs and what is being prescribed to patients.”
Me: “Oh, then could you put one of those medical experts on the phone so I could hear how he or she decided that this prescription my doctor wrote for me is not the one I really need.”
Them: “Those people are not in the same building as us.”
Me: “Convenient how that works.”
Them: “I’m sorry?”
Me: “Of course. So when this medical prescription expert turned my doctors recommendation down, you realize that your brilliant expert did not recommend anything else, right? That while I have been waiting for a few days for you, my insurance company, to decide that this prescription was unworthy, and then you don’t leave me with any other options, I am just left hanging. This expert on your end just decides that because there is no generic drug that matches my prescription, I am undeserving of this drug at all, do I have that right.”
Them: “I did not say that.”
Me: “You did not have to. So what am I supposed to do at this point?”
Them: “Have you contacted your doctor?”
Me: “Yes.”
Them: “What did she say?”
Me: “I believe she said you people are all shallow, greedy assholes.”
Them: “Of course sir, and did she write a different prescription?”
Me: “No, she actually had me come in and she gave me samples from the drug company, because she thinks it’s important that I use the drug that she prescribed, weird how that works.”
Them: “Is there anything else I can help you with today sir?”
Me: “Doubtful.”
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
The voters pick a winner, sort of
Since the dumb voters of Wisconsin have decided the robot in magic underwear is a better candidate to take on the black Jimmy Carter, at least better than the crazy Satan loving Santorum filled candidate, then we can all pack up our electronics and take a a well deserved vacation.
Mitt Romney will fly off to some country he purchased with his millions and millions of dollars and little Ricky Santorum will rush home to rural Pennsylvania with his gaggle of white bread children and realize that this politics game is a winner take all gambit, one in which he was not only ill-prepared, but also one in which he will never win anything more than small town dog catcher. Santorum is a nice guy, but he can’t help himself that his beliefs are those of an 1800’s preacher and America is an Adderall addicted video game playing nation of fools and illiterates and the only time we want religion is at a funeral or before the World Series, and Rick, guess what? No one watches baseball anymore, my lord man, those games go on for something like 8 or 9 innings, you have any idea how long that can last? Sometimes they go into overtime, or excess inning timing or some other stupid phrase the insiders use to appear knowledgeable about a game no one, and I mean no one, cares about. Go Pirates.
So, the little leagues have picked a winner and no surprise again, it’s Mitt Romney, the former governor from the most liberal gay marriage loving state in the union. Of course, Mitt hates the gays, hates the gay marriage thing, and really, when you think about it, who doesn’t hate gay marriage? Well, I don’t hate gay marriage, but I have been around the crowds of right wing knuckle draggers for the last few months and if there is one thing these people hate, it’s gay marriage. I’m not quite sure why. The pudgy white people all get together in a large room in a Sheraton or Holiday Inn express in some god forsaken city that you just know Mitt Romney had a hand in ruining back in the ‘90’s, and they rumble and chat about all the things the democrats have ruined in the last few years and one thing that always pops up are “the gays.”
The problem with hating gay marriage is that it is no longer some far off thing out there that does not exist. It’s not like the right wing nutters can just pretend it’s like Jar Jar Binks, a character everyone can hate for any reason they want, because it does not really exist, so you can hate it and your hate is deserved because in the end, Jar Jar is just fiction. For a long time, that was true of gay marriage, the nutters and haters and far right crazies could claim that if you allow gay marriage it will ruin the country, it will ruin the family, it will ruin the fundamental fabric of American society and of course it will lead to “man on dog” marriage-so said the brilliant Ricky Santorum.
The problem, of course, is that we now have gay marriage in a few states, Massachusetts, the former state run by none other that Willard Romney, a leader of gay marriage. What have we learned from states that allow gay people to marry? We have learned, get this, gay people marry. That’s about it. People fall in love, they commit to one another in a public ceremony, their friends and family get together to celebrate and everyone dances and has a good time. No goats get married, no fabric is unwound in the fundamental parts of our American life. Even dumb old Sarah Palin remains, well, dumb.
See how that works?
So gay marriage loving Mitt Romney is pretty much the official Republican Presidential Nominee. I guess we can all thank Santorum for that, which is what many gay weddings have to do too.
Mitt Romney will fly off to some country he purchased with his millions and millions of dollars and little Ricky Santorum will rush home to rural Pennsylvania with his gaggle of white bread children and realize that this politics game is a winner take all gambit, one in which he was not only ill-prepared, but also one in which he will never win anything more than small town dog catcher. Santorum is a nice guy, but he can’t help himself that his beliefs are those of an 1800’s preacher and America is an Adderall addicted video game playing nation of fools and illiterates and the only time we want religion is at a funeral or before the World Series, and Rick, guess what? No one watches baseball anymore, my lord man, those games go on for something like 8 or 9 innings, you have any idea how long that can last? Sometimes they go into overtime, or excess inning timing or some other stupid phrase the insiders use to appear knowledgeable about a game no one, and I mean no one, cares about. Go Pirates.
So, the little leagues have picked a winner and no surprise again, it’s Mitt Romney, the former governor from the most liberal gay marriage loving state in the union. Of course, Mitt hates the gays, hates the gay marriage thing, and really, when you think about it, who doesn’t hate gay marriage? Well, I don’t hate gay marriage, but I have been around the crowds of right wing knuckle draggers for the last few months and if there is one thing these people hate, it’s gay marriage. I’m not quite sure why. The pudgy white people all get together in a large room in a Sheraton or Holiday Inn express in some god forsaken city that you just know Mitt Romney had a hand in ruining back in the ‘90’s, and they rumble and chat about all the things the democrats have ruined in the last few years and one thing that always pops up are “the gays.”
The problem with hating gay marriage is that it is no longer some far off thing out there that does not exist. It’s not like the right wing nutters can just pretend it’s like Jar Jar Binks, a character everyone can hate for any reason they want, because it does not really exist, so you can hate it and your hate is deserved because in the end, Jar Jar is just fiction. For a long time, that was true of gay marriage, the nutters and haters and far right crazies could claim that if you allow gay marriage it will ruin the country, it will ruin the family, it will ruin the fundamental fabric of American society and of course it will lead to “man on dog” marriage-so said the brilliant Ricky Santorum.
The problem, of course, is that we now have gay marriage in a few states, Massachusetts, the former state run by none other that Willard Romney, a leader of gay marriage. What have we learned from states that allow gay people to marry? We have learned, get this, gay people marry. That’s about it. People fall in love, they commit to one another in a public ceremony, their friends and family get together to celebrate and everyone dances and has a good time. No goats get married, no fabric is unwound in the fundamental parts of our American life. Even dumb old Sarah Palin remains, well, dumb.
See how that works?
So gay marriage loving Mitt Romney is pretty much the official Republican Presidential Nominee. I guess we can all thank Santorum for that, which is what many gay weddings have to do too.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Back in the closet
My younger brother Marty called me this morning and the very first thing out of his mouth was, “I’m coming out of the closet.”
Seriously, and I am on the West Coast recuperating and he, on the East Coast, somewhat retired, having moved into some new loft space, calling at some ungodly hour but probably about 8 AM his time, waking me, and the first thing I hear is this middle aged man, my own brother, a man who has had a couple of wives and a decent amount of women, although to be honest, he has been what I prefer to call the “portal to the other side” because the vast majority of his ex-girlfriends and both of his ex-wives are now out and proud lesbians. So, this man calling and waking me and telling me he is coming out of the closet is not the biggest surprise, although waking me seems a bit dramatic.
That a brother calls and begins a very early morning conversation with “I’m coming out of the closet.” To which, I replied, with searing sarcasm, I promise, “I am not surprised in the least.”
“Now I am in my bedroom, wait, did you think I meant I was gay? God you’re a moron. In my bedroom now, wood floors, still nothing on the walls, exposed brick, may not put anything there because the worn brick kind of creates it’s own artful pattern.”
“You have any idea what fucking time it is?”
“About 8:10?”
“I’m in California.”
“Oh, so about 5:10?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow and you’re awake that early?”
“I am now. Do I need this tour of your new super cool loft right now?”
“Barbara’s dead.”
My mind, barely functioning, barely awake, filled with blood and oxygen and all those other chemicals that wakes the illegal Chinese immigrants who work in my head and function in all sorts of important duties to keep me alert and smart. I sat up. I was trying my best to remember Barbara. I thought he was married to Becky. I was almost sure of that, but I am not good with names. I know my dog is named Beth. I know I have a cat named Stupid. I know I have a number of children who don’t really care what I call them and I know I have at least 5 ex-wives, all of whom prefer that I never call them anything, weird how that worked out. Still, the name Barbara did not ring a bell.
“Who is Barbara?” I asked.
“My parrot, Sheila got her.”
“Who is Sheila?”
“My transsexual cat.”
“I did not know you had a cat.”
“Yeah, Sheila, but she really is a boy cat, named Stan. It’s a long story, but now, Sheila is a killer. A parrot killer.”
“Sad really. I guess.”
“Bonnie moved out.”
“Bonnie another pet?”
“You went to our wedding last year.”
“I thought her name was Becky.”
“You think all women are named Becky. Bonnie said she needed more space and you know what that means.”
“No, it usually means she needs more space.”
“In this case she needed more space with her new friend, Carlita.”
“Seriously? Bonnie needs more space with a hot Latin woman named Carlita?”
“I kid you not. But why would you have to say “hot Latin woman? Was that really necessary?”
“Well, for my fantasy it is, yes.”
“It’s not always about you.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Anyway, I guess that’s why I really called, Bonnie left me for Carlita.”
“So that is your super power. You’re amazing. How many woman have you flipped?”
“Counting Bonnie? Eight.”
“No way. You are like the lighthouse to lesbianism. Hello and goodbye. What is it about you that tells a woman, this hetro thing is not working for you?”
“I never gave it much thought.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Get a new parrot.”
“No, I mean. Yeah, never mind.”
“Right now, I’m going back in the closet, I have shoes to arrange.”
“Of course.”
Seriously, and I am on the West Coast recuperating and he, on the East Coast, somewhat retired, having moved into some new loft space, calling at some ungodly hour but probably about 8 AM his time, waking me, and the first thing I hear is this middle aged man, my own brother, a man who has had a couple of wives and a decent amount of women, although to be honest, he has been what I prefer to call the “portal to the other side” because the vast majority of his ex-girlfriends and both of his ex-wives are now out and proud lesbians. So, this man calling and waking me and telling me he is coming out of the closet is not the biggest surprise, although waking me seems a bit dramatic.
That a brother calls and begins a very early morning conversation with “I’m coming out of the closet.” To which, I replied, with searing sarcasm, I promise, “I am not surprised in the least.”
“Now I am in my bedroom, wait, did you think I meant I was gay? God you’re a moron. In my bedroom now, wood floors, still nothing on the walls, exposed brick, may not put anything there because the worn brick kind of creates it’s own artful pattern.”
“You have any idea what fucking time it is?”
“About 8:10?”
“I’m in California.”
“Oh, so about 5:10?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow and you’re awake that early?”
“I am now. Do I need this tour of your new super cool loft right now?”
“Barbara’s dead.”
My mind, barely functioning, barely awake, filled with blood and oxygen and all those other chemicals that wakes the illegal Chinese immigrants who work in my head and function in all sorts of important duties to keep me alert and smart. I sat up. I was trying my best to remember Barbara. I thought he was married to Becky. I was almost sure of that, but I am not good with names. I know my dog is named Beth. I know I have a cat named Stupid. I know I have a number of children who don’t really care what I call them and I know I have at least 5 ex-wives, all of whom prefer that I never call them anything, weird how that worked out. Still, the name Barbara did not ring a bell.
“Who is Barbara?” I asked.
“My parrot, Sheila got her.”
“Who is Sheila?”
“My transsexual cat.”
“I did not know you had a cat.”
“Yeah, Sheila, but she really is a boy cat, named Stan. It’s a long story, but now, Sheila is a killer. A parrot killer.”
“Sad really. I guess.”
“Bonnie moved out.”
“Bonnie another pet?”
“You went to our wedding last year.”
“I thought her name was Becky.”
“You think all women are named Becky. Bonnie said she needed more space and you know what that means.”
“No, it usually means she needs more space.”
“In this case she needed more space with her new friend, Carlita.”
“Seriously? Bonnie needs more space with a hot Latin woman named Carlita?”
“I kid you not. But why would you have to say “hot Latin woman? Was that really necessary?”
“Well, for my fantasy it is, yes.”
“It’s not always about you.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Anyway, I guess that’s why I really called, Bonnie left me for Carlita.”
“So that is your super power. You’re amazing. How many woman have you flipped?”
“Counting Bonnie? Eight.”
“No way. You are like the lighthouse to lesbianism. Hello and goodbye. What is it about you that tells a woman, this hetro thing is not working for you?”
“I never gave it much thought.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Get a new parrot.”
“No, I mean. Yeah, never mind.”
“Right now, I’m going back in the closet, I have shoes to arrange.”
“Of course.”
Sunday, April 1, 2012
The final auto
Yesterday I accidentally purchased the last car I would ever buy. Maybe I wrote that wrong, and since I am incredibly lazy and writing this on this website as opposed to some sort of writing program that easily allows editing, I will just leave it as it is.
Of course over the last year or so the Fiat company seems to have tried to kill me numerous times, but like some sort of super hero, I have survived, often writing about my experience in bitter and hilarious ways, somewhere on this blog, but again, I am too lazy to provide links. If you want to find them, you will have to go in search.
Instead of holding a grudge, like a real man, I pussied out and fell madly in love with the Fiat 500. Now some therapists, at least five of mine, have said it is not healthy to fall in love with inanimate objects. The vast majority of therapists worldwide are married to inflatable Antonio Banderas love dolls, (that’s a fact) so really, who are they to judge?
Anyway, yesterday I found myself magically in a Fiat dealership and I asked if I could trade in the car I disliked for the one I kind of loved. We went for a test drive and somehow we ended up in a large empty church parking lot and the salesman said to me, as I sat behind the steering wheel, the engine quietly idling, “go ahead, give it a little track test.” So I pounded my foot the the floor and opened up the gas and we were frolicking around the church parking lot, doing figure eights at 40 miles per hour, I was doing sharp turns, trying my best to get the little car up on two wheels, but as I gassed it into a sharp turn, the sporty Fiat would just dig in and motor into it, hugging the curve, grabbing the pavement, no slide, no lift and accelerating out of the turn with a lot more power than you would imagine. The salesman was a little breathless and said I should take it easy and I reminded him that this was my test drive and we did a few more maneuvers.
We ended up back at the dealership, where the nice finance guy offered me more than my beaten down and incredibly dirty car was worth and a monthly payment that was much less than I have been paying for the beaten down and dirty car that I never really liked. Deal – done.
Today my daughter and I had a lot of errands to run and that’s what we did, with her driving and me doing a lot of radio manipulation. This Fiat, baring any accidents or other unexpected mishaps, will be the last car I ever buy.
Of course over the last year or so the Fiat company seems to have tried to kill me numerous times, but like some sort of super hero, I have survived, often writing about my experience in bitter and hilarious ways, somewhere on this blog, but again, I am too lazy to provide links. If you want to find them, you will have to go in search.
Instead of holding a grudge, like a real man, I pussied out and fell madly in love with the Fiat 500. Now some therapists, at least five of mine, have said it is not healthy to fall in love with inanimate objects. The vast majority of therapists worldwide are married to inflatable Antonio Banderas love dolls, (that’s a fact) so really, who are they to judge?
Anyway, yesterday I found myself magically in a Fiat dealership and I asked if I could trade in the car I disliked for the one I kind of loved. We went for a test drive and somehow we ended up in a large empty church parking lot and the salesman said to me, as I sat behind the steering wheel, the engine quietly idling, “go ahead, give it a little track test.” So I pounded my foot the the floor and opened up the gas and we were frolicking around the church parking lot, doing figure eights at 40 miles per hour, I was doing sharp turns, trying my best to get the little car up on two wheels, but as I gassed it into a sharp turn, the sporty Fiat would just dig in and motor into it, hugging the curve, grabbing the pavement, no slide, no lift and accelerating out of the turn with a lot more power than you would imagine. The salesman was a little breathless and said I should take it easy and I reminded him that this was my test drive and we did a few more maneuvers.
We ended up back at the dealership, where the nice finance guy offered me more than my beaten down and incredibly dirty car was worth and a monthly payment that was much less than I have been paying for the beaten down and dirty car that I never really liked. Deal – done.
Today my daughter and I had a lot of errands to run and that’s what we did, with her driving and me doing a lot of radio manipulation. This Fiat, baring any accidents or other unexpected mishaps, will be the last car I ever buy.
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