I Will Miss You When I Am Famous

Real Nightmares

2009-01-05T04:30:00.000-08:00

They are not about monsters chasing you, or villains cutting you. They're not about falling, or even dying, because they are so fantastical, that you know right away that they are not real.

The ones that hurt the most are the ones that are subtle and get into your head. They convince us that something we really wanted was ours and was real. Then, they continue to play out until they become part of us. Right when we are sure that we are not asleep, that "this is not a dream," we wake up. In those first few minutes, we are left to our own devices to sort out was real and what was better.

We are forced to give up something that meant so much to us; something that was, for a time, both never there and truly ours.

"BABY OVER BOARD"

2008-11-13T12:19:00.000-08:00

Today, while driving up a busy street, someone on the left was in the center island area, so I let them into the lane. While I did that, someone from a side street on the right also went. Fine. BUT, someone behind them ran their stop sign, because they did not feel like waiting for the next opening, and being the 3rd car, had to push in front of my vehicle. When they came to a stop, not only did I see a "BABY ON BOARD" sign, (and yes, it's in all capitals, for extra guilt) but I saw the actual car seat and actual baby.

With both Mom and Dad in front, I stuck my head out the window and yelled, "AND THE SIGN EVEN SAYS 'BABY ON BOARD.'" Dad, not only turned from the passenger seat to give me a dirty look, but removed his "shades" for impact. When they turned right, I yelled, "GOOD LUCK, BABY."

Cause, he's gonna need it.

And seriously, I don't need a sign to remind me to drive safely. Either I am or I'm not, and I do. Driving "baby safe" should be like "hate crime." There's "safe" and there's "criminal."

If you have ever driven in a school zone, one of the most selfish zones in America, you'd see that the sign needs to be turned inward.

INTERNATIONAL TUBA-MAN OF MYSTERY

2008-08-31T20:11:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, I played in a band that appears at the bullfights in Tijuana, Mexico. I had a very peculiar incident down there, so I wanted to share it with other musicians, and hear your thoughts about it. After my initial writing of this experience, I’ll share some responses from some of my friends, and friends of theirs.

At this point, the only people that I know are the trumpet player and a trombone player from my band back in the states. Sheets of music are handed out and collected one piece at a time. When the first piece is left on my stand, I am still warming up. So, even before my first song, a clarinet player comes up to me and says,

“This note here, it is one and three,” and demonstrates the fingering.

Now, the note he is pointing to is a D in the staff. Since he is a clarinet player, so obviously misguided, I feel comfortable saying,

“Uh, ... no. That’s open.”

“We play it one.”

Now, as you will soon be able to tell by my descriptions if you have not been able to discern already, I am NOT very knowledgable on my music theory. There is also the language barrier to consider, but I DO speak Tuba, and I know a D when I see one. (I had hoped.) At that point, I decide that this guy is nuckin futz, and decide to speak the same language.

“When I see that note on the paper, I play TOOT and to play TOOT I have to either play it open, or one and two. If I play one, TOOT or one and three TOOT, I get that note, the note below the one you are pointing to,” and I’m tooting away, so he can hear what I believe I am supposed to hear when I see the D on paper.”

“We do it differently here.”

Do it differently? There is no “differently.” Music is supposed to be universal. At this point, I am torn between stealing the “There is no crying in baseball” routine from Tom Hanks, and panicing because I have fallen down Alice’s rabbithole into a tuba hell. To console myself, I think that maybe the language barrier is still in effect, because the older tuba player keeps telling me to play it up. Also, since I rode with somebody else, and four hours to kill, what do I have to lose by beating my head against a musical brickwall? I am going to just listen across, and hear what I am supposed to hear, and in turn, be rescued from The Twilight Zone.

To my left, is the older guy, and to my right, is a younger guy. We play the first song, and sure enough, they’re playing every note two half steps down. In addition to having to transpose, the other two players played most of the music an octave down, intermittantly mixing in the proper octave, which played even more havoc with my chances of following along. After the first song, I felt tricked and abandoned. The music was fantastic, but I could only play some of it. If you have ever gone to a friend’s rehearsal, and could only listen and not play, then you understand some of my frustration.

At this point, the clarinet player approached me again, and said, “We play it two half-steps down because your horn has three valves, and so does the trumpet. So, we write it with the trumpet and the clairnet. In America, your part is written along side the string bass. Doesn’t that make more sense this way?”

Fortunately, I am so frustrated and caught off guard, that I cannot be snake charmed. I told him, “Right now, I’m not going to argue which system is best. Right now, I really want my system. It’s the one I know.” I found it very very strange that he would state that their way was the one true way, but also argue in its defense. Very suspicious,indeed.

He takes off, and the young player tells me, “In America, it’s different. This is how it is done in Mexico. Most of the world does it this way. America is about the only one that plays it like that.”

All I can think about is how I know people and I cannot wait to get back home and have this checked out. I just could not imagine that after all these years, that I was playing some sort of Secret American Tubage. I went to my trombone and trumpet friends, and said, “Hey, is your sheet music the same here as in America?”

“They’re not playing what’s written?”

“No, they’re taking two half steps off of each note.”

“No way! That’s bullshit.”

“Well, they’re playing the notes that fit the song. Somebody just wrote everything up two half steps on paper.”

So, I go back to my corner, thinking thinking thinking. Something had to be up, because they can’t just screw with one part. I could see if it was written from the view of another instrument entirely, but two half steps down? Music is math. It is a formula ranging from soprano to bass, and you can’t just relocate something because it suits you. I do not know why the rules are there, but I do know they exist, and need to be followed. Similar to a recipe, but stricter.

Oh, and in case things get too easy, most of the music was two sharps. We brass players LUUUUVVVV sharps. Did I mention that there was only one sheet of music for two sousaphone players and one tuba player to share? Did I mention that there were songs that the other sections had sheet music for, but the tubas had in their head? It was killing me. I was feeling very “intermediate band.” In spite of all that, every once in a while, I would get a part down, and let everyone know I had it.

At the break, I needed help. I saw beer, and as every good tuba player knows, beer = help. I should not have moved. On my way back, this VERY drunk man gets ahold of me, and starts joking on how the white boy stands out. Without warning, he switches to his wife that just recently died, how he did not have much longer, and how I was a young pup. Crikey, I was busy hating everybody and everything, and I have to have a conversation! I had two hands. Why didn’t I have two beers? That second beer could have gotten me into the conversation. Finally, the next song was starting, and I got to run away.

As we start playing, I notice that what I consider to be an Eb, they consider it to be an E. My Bb, is their B. Then, two things hit me. One, they had written a bass clef part, but adjusted it to a trumpet’s rules. I was reading some sort of bass trumpet part. Two, that there would be no immediate resolution of this problem. That my only way out was the other side.

From time to time, maybe once every other piece, I would get a section down, and go at it. Unfortunately, it was never an entire song, so I could never really relax.

Next break, next puzzle piece. The older tuba player showed me a newspaper clipping of himself playing in that very same band in 1978. (Mexico had button fly collars. Seems that we have some cultural apologizing to do, too.) At this point, the group moved into the arena, and took our seats to play for the bulls. Over the next six hours, I struggled to understand an hammer out a theory as to what was going on musically. My friends kept saying, “They’re not playing what’s written. That’s crazy,” and I would have to go back and explain that yes, they were playing what was written, AND they were playing the notes that fit with the rest of the music. It was just their sheet music that was off.

What I really struggled was for an analogy that would put it in perspective for other musicians, and even non-musicians alike. This is what I came up with. If you and I spoke English, and I said, “How are you?” I would say it in English, you would hear it in English, and we would both agree on what that phrase meant. Then, you wrote down “Glerble blah, maw maw,” and read that as “How are you?” You and I could talk to each other (as I did in toots earlier) but we could not write to each other. This would be the case whenever I played with this band at the bullfights.

Here is my final guestimate as to why I was seeing what I was seeing. Long long long time ago, it was probably the same director that scored these pieces. His knowledge of trumpet scripture was much more advanced than his knowledge of bass scripture. To me, it would take a much more educated man to come up with a bass trumpet part than to learn a bass clef part, but that seems to be what happened. Since it is a mathematical system consistent within itself, it works. As for the reasons why everyone around me was acting like Stepford wives, at that time the music was written out, the clarinet player, at a young age, was convinced of the logic of this way of writing music, and took it as THEE way. He himself, became a music teacher and taught his students to think this way. One of these students was the young tuba player, who currently has graduated.

Tuba Conspiracy.

Like I said before, this is only a guess, since nobody would give me a straight story. All of you Star Trek fans will understand the line, “You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.” That is exactly what it felt like.

Now, had someone been straight with me, I probably could have relaxed, and accepted the situation for what it was. Like I said before, it is my horn, and I love it. I have been playing it for twenty years now, and if someone is going to tell me that I have been in the dark for two decades, I am going to, as you can see, investigate the situation very seriously.

I would like to make one last point, as a musician, and as an American. WE are originally from everyplace else. We brought our concept of musicianship to the new country from Europe. At the time, up until jazz, playing like people did in Europe was considered the ideal. It was the way to be “truly sophisticated.” So, you cannot tell me that we kept every aspect of music the same except the concept of writing the tuba’s part from the standpoint of the three valve instrument, while no other instrument’s part was dicked with whatsoever. Either all the parts evolved, or it all remained constant.

Anyway, if anyone can help me with this, I would be interested in listening. As I stated earlier, I am far from being a music major. I only became an amateur Sherlock Horns to get answers.

Have I missed something this big all my musical life?

response from friend

OK. Checked with my firends, my tuba specialists, AND my "Mexican Connections". Obviously, tubas read bass clef in every country including Mexico. Come on.....certainly you've played your share of German Polkas. What clef were they in? If you want to prove it to the guy, just get online and order a piece of tuba music from a Mexican company in Mexico to be delivered to a Mexican Tuba player in Mexico. It will not come in treble clef. therefore, if Mexican music comes in bass clef for Mexican players your point has been proven.

Most of my friends chuckled when I told them your story, but one of the Mexican teachers (who actually teaches down in TJ also) actually got angry. He was angry because this guy was making all of Mexico look bad. He asked me to tell you that not all of Mexico is like that. It's like when we got those two-for-one beers from that resturant. (Two beers for one guy, not two beers for the price of one.) Also, TJ doesn't not have music teachers in the public schools. (They can hardly afford teachers) He's problably just volunteering his time or working like a marching coach would at an American high school. Anyway, all of my friends agreed.........if he truly is serious, don't be too hard on him. He's doing the best he can with what little education he's recieved, and since very few tuba players grow up to be professionals, at least he's bringing joy to some kids life for a little while. Because in Mexico most of their playing is by ear anyhow. He's probably just trying to save face in front of his students.

Next time charge you friend a lot more beer for the performance.

Tuba case closed.

Ashley Is A Derby Girl

2008-08-18T18:59:00.000-07:00

(and doesn’t even know it)

She loves hissing cockroaches, and frogs with colored bellies… as pets, not for breakfast.

Creative beyond her years, she graduated long before she left the fourth grade.

She takes guitar lessons, but made a cardboard guitar so she could be in an air band with her best friend… who plays the cardboard drums.

Ashley does not listen to music.

She broke her arm trying to combine the scooter and the roller skate.

She only eats foods that are white. (Cauliflower, vanilla protein shakes, and… uh…)

Ashley did not like the Wild Cherry M&M’s I gave her, “But we ate them anyway.” (This will translate into “team spirit” in a matter of years, if it has not already.)

She invented Elvis Tag. Once you are tagged, you can unfreeze yourself by doing finger guns, and saying, “Hey, beh-beh,” by way of an Elvis impersonation. (At her current age, she will let you “unfreeze” yourself. Once she starts skating, tags are for keeps. Possible skater names for Ashley: Tagged Out, Put Down-Stay Down, Elvis Upside Your Head, You’re It!)

*she says the boys didn’t get it*

She once cleaned a toilet with her bare hands. No, she did not use her bare hands to move a scrub brush. Her hand WAS the scrub brush.

On our last day together, we debated who would miss whom more. (I let her win.)

The Ashley Show happens 24 hours a day, and if they televised it that is exactly how much I would watch it.

Ashley is a derby girl, and doesn’t even know it…

yet.

Roller Derby Announcing: My Introduction

2008-08-04T18:13:00.001-07:00

First response to question: A&E's Rollergirls
Second response to question: A&E's Rollergirls
Third response to question: A&E's Rollergirls
Fourth response to question: A&E's Rollergirls

So, I had finished watching the A&E series, "Rollergirls" only a couple of month previous, when I saw an ad for a bout for the San Diego Derby Dolls. Even when I watched the series, I only watched it because I thought it would be a train wreck. Being that it was an A&E series, I thought it would be marks above the usual crap staring your average celebrity-craving attention whore. (Geez, they'll make a reality series about anything.) I still underestimated the series.

Even though I enjoyed the series, the sport itself did not really interest me. The MTV-style jumping camera shots works against what is most exciting about the sport. Still, I wanted to go once, just for something different. Besides, how long were they going to last?

So, I went. And... I LOVED IT. I loved it more than I could have ever guessed. I am not a sports fan, so this feeling of being a fan was strange to me. Almost overwhelming. My first thought was that people had no idea how great this sport is.

Soon after that, there were ads on MySpace for announcers. My improv group had just collapsed, and I was looking for that next step. The ad had several requirements; keeping it a family show, being able to talk for an hour, able to project, etc, etc. I had done all of those things separately, but never all at once.

Plus, I was not a sports fan. Zero announcing experience. Nope. Not for me. Too bad. Would have liked to been involved.

A second ad came out. Then, I started thinking about it. It is a new sport. They cannot expect the announcers to be experienced when even the players were not. At that point, I thought I'd go and try out, and leave it up to the team whether I was qualified or not.

Still didn't go.

It was something new, and uncertainly had me always coming up with things to do other than get in contact with this group.

Around that time, Aunt Flo posted a birthday party at The Zombie Lounge. I went, and started talking to Kiki Diazz. I told her all the reasons why I did not think that I could do it, and she encouraged me, saying that they had "professional" announcers that were very flat and condescending toward the entire experience, and that they would much prefer someone that loved the sport.

So, I sent an e mail asking how I try out. Nobody responded. Kiki asked how everything was going. I told her, "I don't know." She would go shake them. I showed up. I was told by Jonny and Jazz that there would be a try out. That never happened. Here I am.

Kiki, if a group of black and white masked bandits take you out back for a beating, you truly have my sincerest apologies.

preBANKED TRACK BOUT

2008-07-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

After Saturday night’s incredible upset, San Diego was skating in an unexpected Sunday bout. To go up against the Lonestar Rollergirls, thee TXRD, reputation as well as experience would lead you to believe that San Diego would have their heads handed to them. This situation threatened to play out similar to The Charger’s first time to The Super Bowl. “We’re here. Now what”? The reality was that many of the players that made them famous had either retired, or were injured, so the team that San Diego faced was newer, and as history would show, within reach.

On Sunday, hours before the bout, San Diego would take the track. Coach Isabelle Ringer led her team through some drills to warm up. The night before, this team proved that they were ready to compete on a national level on the banked track as well as flat track; the only improvements needed were minor adjustments. After San Diego completed warm ups, Isabelle discussed penalty-avoiding strategies, and the team went on to practice those. Minutes later, ReferIan and Coach Ringer came together to go over the particular rules and regulations of this bout. This tournament combined banked and flat track rules, so it was important not to fall into flat track habits when they were playing on a banked track.

At 2:35, from the backs of the arena, a skater from another team shoots to the edge of the track, and asks about the procedure for getting in some warm-up time. Since no other teams had shown up until then, that San Diego made use of the available track until the next team arrived. From where I was seated, going by the ladies’ tone, the two seemed to be having a nice-off. Was that through clenched teeth, because that would soon change.

As the final San Diego skaters rolled out of the front of the arena and made their way to the dressing rooms, more than one of them made eye contact with me and gave me a facetious “your eyes on them” gesture. At that moment, I imagined Willy Wonka-esque security approaching me, demanding to know, “What are you doing here? This is a restricted area,” in that authoritarian tone. While moving my hand to cover the SDDD logo on the front of my shirt, I would reply, “Who? Me”?

At 2:30, only three skaters from the other team had arrived to warm up on the track.

At 3:00, a couple of skaters asked the question the skaters warming up had asked about track times. Once again, they used a very cordial tone. Was it Opposite Day?

So, sitting in the snooty, above-it-all media area, an announcement comes over the speakers that Team Awesome had requested “private time” on the track, and asked that all skaters from other teams please leave the area (making the track an even snootier area than the Snooty Media Area).

While Team Awesome practiced their fouling technique, San Diego referee Skurvy Pirate passed on the arena floor below. I waved to him, but it was too late. His back was to me; I could tell, because I could see a reflection of myself waving to him. Upon closer inspection, I can see that he is on the phone, but he is not saying anything.

Must be talking to Ginny.

Here is the problem with the Snooty Media Area, as well as snooty areas in general. They are built to be above everybody and everything, and in turn, away from everybody and everything. Hours early because I rode up with one of our refs, Lexxx, I was getting restless. One thing I noticed while watching warm ups is how much more difficult it is to ninja jump over a body on a banked track versus a flat track.

Wait a minute, is Miss Fortune not skating? I can tell that she is not skating, because I can actually see her, instead of the blur that I had come to know as Miss Fortune. (Sure, normally you could blame my drinking, but in her particular case, the description “blur,” is accurate.) She appeared to be walking without a limp or physical indication of injury, but there is a difference between being capable to walk, and ready to skate in a bout (unless you mean, walking in New York City). If Miss Fortune was not skating in Team Awesome’s bout, that would be a big coo to the other team.

After two hours of pen-wiggling, Swig Whiskey, cameraman of the Los Angeles Derby Dolls joined me in Camp Snooty. We talked about how he first intended to become a referee (LA calls them “enforcers”), but the time commitment to both skating and learning the rules conflicted with his personal life. (Maybe he saw 3.0 coming on the horizon, and bailed.) His desire to be involved led him to doing the filming work for LADD. He reveled to me that “There is something about roller derby. If I knew that someone [a stranger] was involved with roller derby, I would trust them more than somebody who was not.” In absolute agreement, it has always been my opinion that the sport attracts a certain level of character. There is an article in one of the early issues of Blood And Thunder where the writer sold his belongings, including his company stock options, and spends the better part of the year traveling the country, and writing about different bouts from city to city. At the end of the article, he describes the roller derby community as incredible and outstanding, and states that his journey would have been much shorter, if not impossible without their care and generosity.

At this point, the bout between San Diego and that team nobody has ever heard of was about to begin. That means a different kind of notes, and a different post.

This is The Ill Reverend Mike, pausing to catch his breath.

(Sure, this might be near its expiration date, but when we got back, everybody was talking about LA.)

Punk Rock Drive-In

2008-05-30T21:43:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday, I went up to Montclair, CA. to attend Punk Rock Drive-In, hosted by the Mission Tiki Drive-In. Being from San Diego, I know squat about where anything else is, because we don’t care. In geography tests in the southern California school system, there is Where You Are, and then there is everywhere else, called Doesn’t Matter.

That day, it mattered. The ad said that doors open at 4:45, and that bands kick off at 5:00. After a short dance with internet directions, I find out that it is a two-hour drive, but the webpage suggests to leave time for traffic. It is not like I have not driven to Los Angeles in the past. The difference being that this trip was, with the exception of a short stint on the 60 west, all on the 15 north. Unless you drive to Vegas, you really have no need for that much 15. As far as I was concerned, the 15 ended at some microbreweries in North County.

According to my math, the trip was two hours, the first band goes on at 5:00 PM, I needed to leave early to account for traffic; I’LL LEAVE AT 2:00! (Please, somebody stop me.) At the time, I suspected that it might have been a bit too early. I accepted the fact that it was my first time, and that there were choices I would make and actions I would commit on this trip that could have been better, but that I could only learn that through experience.

An aside, I was going alone and my LA map book was somewhere in my old car. I had wanted to go to Punk Rock Drive-In for about a year, but my old car needed to stay as close to home as possible, and nobody bit when I sent out inquiries. Now, bought a new car and I did not have to work the next day. I talked to one person, invited a couple I know that enjoys punk, but they never answered. Early in life, I figured out that for some things, if I ever wanted to experience them, I would have to go at it alone. I would just go, and after I knew what I was talking about, then they could figure out (at my expense) whether or not it was something that they would enjoy.

What Punk Rock Drive-In offers is two movies, but before that, two or three punk rock bands (they have a DJ for the in-between periods). What a genius use of a drive-in parking lot. There was a vendor selling her personally made jewelry, and a taco rig. There was a raffle sponsored by The Guitar Center Music Foundation, which is a charity that educates children in all aspects of music, from appreciation to application (guitarcenter.com). The best part, though, is that they had a burlesque act.

So, I arrive two hours and fifteen minutes later, and that is with two bathroom breaks on the way. It seems that we San Diegans, despite the distance, have a nice advantage of being able to avoid the 805, the 5, and all of the congested capillaries that branch off of them. It was a very smooth ride. Not one bit of traffic. The theatre is one road off of the 60 west. I think I was just outside of Riverside, to give the area a familiar name. I arrived in time for the ten or so cars to uh… drive in. I pull into line, and see that the guy up front is checking for orange wrist bands. Yep, they were the entertainment. I jumped the gun. Sir, please turn your car around for fifteen more minutes. Seeing that the site says that they let in at 4:45, I considered 4:30 a gift. More so since there was no place to line up, just a place for autos to huddle.

I had been to the drive-in as an adult, but it had been at least ten years since the last time. (What was that Robert De Niro/Billy Crystal comedy? The second one, yea.) As I follow the snakey road around, questions that I never had to think about start popping into my head. Now that I have a Santa Fe instead of a Geo Metro, do I have to park in back? Would it be better to park backward? I found a spot in the third row that let the screen take up half of my windshield so it was framed by an inch of glass. Chair reclined back, headrest in place, pillow to prop my head up within arms reach, cooler next to me. When I got out, I saw that my perfect spot required me to take up six inches of the space behind me, but leave six feet of parking space in front of me. Was some asshole going to show up five hours later, and demand that his car point nose-first toward the ground and that he needed those last six inches of space behind me? Because the hump in the blacktop that pointed you at the screen was in the center of the parking space, there was no way someone would use those last six inches. (No one has ever used my last six inches. There is just no point.)

The first band, devious public, started at 5:30, and I really enjoyed them. I almost never go to live shows. To me, there is little appeal to “watching” music. Clubs are always too warm. (I am bald. That is too much forehead to let sweat.) In addition, no matter where I stand, no matter how safe I feel, there is always some twit that wants to stand RIGHT NEXT to me, and then scoot after me, as I try to scoot away. Have you ever been a scoot chase? It sucks as much as it sounds. In hot purscoot? That’s not even a word. A scoot-by shooting? It does not exist, but necessity, as well as an asshole, is the motherfucker of invention. Today, outside the drive-in snack bar, in a parking lot with 20 cars, *exhale*…

There was room. (Someonestillcameandstoodrightnexttome. Scootscootscoot.)

At one point, I went back to my car to get exact change for the taco guy, and began writing this. I saw that there were all sorts of boundary offenders parked around me. There was one thing I could check off of the paranoia list. I went back, and bought the two-taco combo plate. The tacos (al carbon, carne asada, and chicken) were very well made, and they included a condiment bar. While I am at it, I want to mention the theatre itself. It was VERY clean. The bathroom smelled like bubble gum. More than bubble gum, it smelled like somebody had baked a dessert that was bubble gum flavored. Like bubble gum pudding. I think it had eight stalls, with doors. The snack bar was like a well-kept fast food restaurant, as opposed to what I am used to, a yellow, waxy old plastic and florescent lit cafeteria line. They had many tables inside and out for eating, and had a great Tiki motif. The food prices were much more reasonable than your walk-in theatre, and the collector cup came with two free refills.

I go back outside to catch the burlesque act. www.myspace.com/tikiboomboomburlesque It was nice. There were four dancers, and they each did one dance. In the past, when I have watched burlesque, they had a theme, an act, a scene that they performed. I understand that they did not have a real stage, but I figure that they came all that way with their dressing trailer, we had time, why not? Still, it was a lot of fun, and they worked the crowd well. The first dancer did a feather fan dance, which I had always wanted to see live. I think my favorite thing about burlesque is the audience interaction, the way the performers play with audience reactions.

So, while we waited for the third band, ADHD, to go on, I heard someone in the band say “Don’t worry. We’re not in a rush.” I would say that, if you can, once it starts, to keep things going as well as you can. It was a little cool, and very windy. Some of the crowd might have been lost in the wait. On the other hand, because you are in your car close by, you know right when the next band starts. The second band was very entertaining. I am not very knowledgeable about punk rock, but I do know that it has great energy.

Another benefit to the drive-in parking lot is that you can stand as close or as far from the bands as you like. Unlike a club or bar, because you have limited space from which to work, with distance, you have your own volume control. You shape your own experience. Even if you went around the corner of the snack bar, the noise level reduced by half. There were families there with children as young as three.

A side note to douchebags: seeing that burlesque is a visual medium, and seeing that the picnic tables provided come with benches for sitting, GET OFF THE GOD DAMN TABLES. The ladies did not have a stage to work on; we were all on the same plane. I had to negotiate some “rebel” that could not be bothered to sit where sitting was supposed to occur. Oh, yea. This goes for the 6’6” douchebag that loved the band so much, that he had to stand in front, in the center, and film with his cell phone. Fucking YouTube nightmare! The fact that stork-man could have gotten the same exact shot on his ass as he did standing in my way. My last mention, not parked near me, but as I went to the bathroom, someone insisted on leaving their engine running during the entire movie. What? Were you short a hamster to run your FM radio? In whole, drive-in movie crowds are better, but wherever you go, some representative from typical society will not let you down.

After the third band finished, I tracked down the organizer. She told me that this is something she started as something to do in her off season for her clothing line. She breaks even, and the bands play for free, for the advertising. They understand that this is just starting up, and will take some time and investment to get off of the ground. She uses the drive in and bands to bring two different groups of people together that, on any given day, would not ever cross paths. She said that there are people that say they came for the movie, but found themselves enjoying the bands. Regarding vice versa, who does not like movies? Everybody, including myself, agrees that Punk Rock Drive-In is a lot of fun, and much better than we had anticipated. I told her that if she pushed the “15 freeway only” aspect of driving to San Diegans, that she might reach an untapped customer source. (San Diegans have the same nightmares about LA traffic that the rest of the country has about our traffic.)

I could review the movie, but it does not matter. The movie was “Indiana Jones, In Search of the Golden AARP.” I just like the idea that she can get brand new blockbusters for this event. Nobody is getting shortchanged here.

She even provides ear plugs for the children.

June 21^st is the next showing. The movie is The Dark Knight. You see? She makes it easy to want to go.

Myspace.com/punkrockdrivein

House Of Excuses

2008-04-02T20:35:00.000-07:00

I work in the school system. School is all about helping students reach their full potential through education and socialization. So, why is it that, at least where I work, we accept excuses and behavior from alleged adults that we would never accept from children.

Even before a problem arises, someone's knee jerk reaction is to prepare me and rationalize why they are going to fail on a regular basis. If one more person explains to me why something CANNOT be done, I am going to explode. I mean it. Look to your horizon. There will scraps of someone that thought whatever they were doing was so important that whoever is nearby can be put on hold. Lately, this is the school secretary. Despite their protests, they are not holding up walls or putting pressure on arterial wounds. The last secretary I saw as I walked in the office w/o warning was not moving her hands. She was barely moving her diaphragm as she starred out the doorway. (This is why she needs a phone call to lift both of her butts out of the chair. She is not a woman. She is one of Pavlov's dogs.)

I do not even hear the phrase, "I can't..." anymore. You see, everybody wants to tell me that what I need is impossible until we involve other people. You see excuse-makers, SOMEBODY holds your leash. You think getting off of your butt and doing your job is difficult? Try doing that while feeling embarrassment and resentment because you needed that leash jerked to bring you back to reality. Every time we do this dance, it's "I can't," discussion, then they find a way to do it. You can. If someone lights a fire under your ass, you can find a way to solve problems. You just do not want to.

I would love to survey people in other school districts and see if "I can't" is as popular a phrase as it is here.

Car Expo

2008-04-01T20:15:00.000-07:00

At the car expo, each make of car had its own area. This was nice, because you could sit in all the Fords, all the Nissans, etc, etc. Originally, I had thought I wanted a Nissan due to pricing and reliability. Sitting in them, it occurred to me that no matter how large the outside became, the inside would always be a Japanese companies' idea of what a large person needs, and not of what one actually does. A lot of cars, in fact, have the outside of my right arm touching the side of the passenger's seat. (I was really hoping to have two ride in my car this time.)

Like I said before, there were people there to answer my questions, but not to sell me on anything. I would not discover how well I had it until later, when I had to deal with car salesmen (or salesbroads).

Just before heading to the expo, I told a friend of mine what aspects that I wanted in a car, and she told me that she got her Hyundai Santa Fe for all of the same reasons. I kept that in mind as I sat in many cars, eliminating one after another. She also told me that in '07, they took the Santa Fe, remodeled it, and even better, took everything that had gone wrong with Santa Fes in the past, and FIXED IT.

This really got my attention. I left the expo that day with two cars in mind: the Hyundai Santa Fe and the Chrysler 300.

This was only the beginning.

Car Shopping

2008-03-28T15:42:00.001-07:00

The thing I hate about buying anything that costs more than an electric can opener these days is that EVERYTHING requires research. Otherwise, you get a cell phone that does everything but make phone calls, computer motherboards that are marked down for a reason, and cars that are only nice on the outside.

I probably should have been blogging about this as I went along, but I'm telling you, I would come home on break, and start clicking boxes on the internet. Get home that evening, the same, for hours. My meals were one handed snacks that I could read for while the next site popped up. This had been going on since January, only because there are several aspects to car shopping that you have to check out.

Since I am going to break this up, let me say that Edmunds.com is a lifesaver. They have everything and more. The first step I would recommend is for you to think about exactly what you want in a car. Not type, style, make, model or color. Just the general specifications that are important to you.

For example, I wanted something that I fit into. I had spent 16 years in something similar to a Geo Metro. Very reliable, but this time, I wanted something that did not let me knuckles drag the ground while I drove. So, it had to have room, be high up, get decent mileage, be reliable, have electric everything, and be comfortable. I started by talking to people about it. Early on, I listed off my specifications and my friend said that she got the Hyundai Santa Fe for all of those reasons. Okay, I had a starting point. Everything from there on out was a comparison and contrast to a Hyundai Santa Fe. She also told me that starting in '07, they took all of the reported problems from years previous, and FIXED them. Good. They are a company that takes pride in their product.

My next step would be a new car expo at the convention center downtown, where I would not be able to test drive anything, but I would be able to sit inside the cars, and ask questions about them. The nice part about this was that nobody there was actually trying to sell me anything [re: make a commission off of me].

Yes!!!

2008-03-11T17:06:00.000-07:00

Yes!!!

Car Shopping...

2008-03-10T21:30:00.000-07:00

is going to kill me.

My Astrological Sign Is "Bacon"

2008-01-05T20:44:00.000-08:00

You were born Jan 2, and your astrological sign is “Bacon”

You were born under the sign of bacon. You are great by youself, but make everything you are with better. Good things are great, and bad things are good. Great things are even greater. You are not necessarily healthy, but then again, you are to be savored, and not consumed by the pile (even though every urge is to consume you by the pile). Still, no one can stop at just a little of you.

Prepared in no time, people will always try you with new things. Even when forbidden from you, people will sneak you.

Signs you go best with: cheeseburger, shrimp, scallops, cheddar, and potato skins.

Your element: Home

Your ruling planets: The Appetizer

Symbol: The Skillet

Your stone: Iron

Life Pursuit: To be taken out of the “fat” category and put back into rightful category, MEAT.

Vibration: Tasty Goodness

Most Memorable Moment: Being mentioned in the film, “Pulp Fiction.” (“Bacon... is good.)

*You have a salt moon rising in my seventh house of herbs and spices.

Really, it was my birthday, and it was bookended with my neighbor’s alarm going off every seven minutes from 5:30 AM to 7:30 AM, and getting a cold that evening that has kept me locked in the house since. On the other hand, I did have a day of good food, friends, good television (Andrew Zimmerman’s Bizzare Foods) and my dvd-by-mail company got me all three of my movies over the next two days. A storm blew in, so I could not go anywhere anyway, so it was not a bad time to develop some cabin fever.

Happy New Year, everybody. Let’s get it right this time.

Poker Braggin'

2007-12-29T23:56:00.000-08:00

(Recycled stories from when blogs did not exist. THAT tells you how long is has been since I've won in poker, and how my luck truly is.)

I have a friend that has an all night poker game at his house, in his garage twice a month. It is a friendly game, which might translate into only losing pride instead of pride and money. I am not sure, because out of the five or six sessions that I have participated in, I have not come away a "winner" per se. Not that I do not have a great time. It is more like a meeting of The Knights of the Bullshiting Table, which, wherever a table like that exists, always has my name on it. Actually, "friendly" game means the pot limit is five dollars. Even so, I once had to hand someone $8.50 in chips. This is the pride vs. pride and money thing. The amount is not that significant, but the competitor that spend some time amassing that fine stack of .50 chips had just been gutting. Not only was I gutted in the hand, I was gutted for the game. At that point, we only had about 90 min. left to play. Time only for partial damage control at best. Oh, and let me tell you, getting spanked like that ... your next three hands are a haze, because you're still duct taping the wounds from the hand that made you feel you brought a knife to a gun fight.

Personally, I take my ten dollars in chips, and make them last around six hours. Granted, before I leave the house, I have to make sure I have my original ten for chips, and an extra ten in "I can't believe it's only been 90 minutes" money. In addition, I leave the table with six to eight dollars of my original ten, even when I have had to take back extra money I've put in. That basically means that when one of those bastards takes a wrecking ball to my winnings, I can tighten up and do some recouping. (see above)

For the majority of my games, I have noticed a winnings pattern. I lose and lose and lose for the first 90 minutes. Then, I come back. Not big, but steady. Then, the wrecking ball comes late in the night. (And no, I will not do a study on amount of beer vs. amount of winnings. Some secrets of the universe are best left ... blurry.)
We always play on Saturday nights, unless it cannot be helped. I, myself have never attended a Friday night game. Thankfully, my schedule has prevented this. I wake up at 4:30 AM, and going until 2 AM the next day is just tugging too hard on both ends of the day. Still, cards wait for no man, and everyone could make it on Friday. Also, if you want a regular poker game, you honor the host by attending reliably. It would not be right to ask him to organize games, only to have to save his night only to cancel again and again.

I tried to nap that day, but it wasn't happening. Probably because I kept thinking about how tired I would be if I did not get a good nap in. I did not want to do coffee, because I did not want to rush my game, either. Guess I'll have to have the caffeinated beer.

I did not really pay attention to what I had with me, because it had somebody else's name on it. The only thing I really do for myself is make sure my second ten comes in five's, so I can let go of my money in smaller pieces. I did get a glance, and I think I had $24 in my pocket.

I started the game off strong. I lost the first two hands with really good cards, and won the third with great cards, getting my money back plus extra. There was no 90 minute dip this time. My middle game was better, just because I made a small improvement on when to move with medium cards. I was being handed bills, along with chips. (and snacks... mmm snaaacksss... And beer. mmmm beeerrr...)

Well, the wrecking ball awaits no man. In just a few hands, the fat wad of ones and fives in my pocket was gouged clean through, as well as a good portion of my chips. Without going into game detail, we have games with a "guts" rule, meaning that if everybody bails out, and you are caught with the best of the crappy hands, you match the pot. (Should be changed to "Mike's Guts Across The Table.") Five of those hands in a row got me.

There were no more big wins for me that night. I held steady, took some small pots, and in the name of self-entertainment, challenged someone so they could not go out. (When you go out, you get the pot, blah blah blah.)

End of the night, we are cleaning up. For the last hour, I was proped up by my elbows, and people kept having to ask me to continue. We ask each other how the other person did. I did a quick flip of my money, and saw only ones. I was handed $11 at the end of the game, so I assumed that I made a buck. So many bills came and *sniff* went that I did not even want to look. (There is a moment between eleven and midnight every game when I quickly get to a point where it would have been best to leave. The rest of my nights are usually me defending my pile those vultures slowly pick at.)

I usually stay up there, and sleep off my beer gains and wage losses. After getting ready for bed, I took my money out, and counted it. It seems that behind those ones were THE TENS that I could not see. I came in with $24. I left with FIFTY FRICKIN TWO DOLLARS!!! I could not believe it. That would mean that I more than doubled my money even after taking my slow beating. I did not even think about how much I would have had if I kept everything, because in this game, there is no keeping everything. Up until this point, there was only losing by less. I mentally backtracked just to be sure. Competition wise, if I took my winnings from this night, and divied them up between all my other nights, instead of being down a few bucks each game, I am now up a few bucks each game.

At the moment, I like this way better ...

MY CAR IS TERMINAL

2007-12-28T18:17:00.000-08:00

Today, I received the report:

My Car Is Terminal

I bought my car in 1992, but it is a 1989 model. A Suzuki Swift to be exact. What that translates to is a Geo Metro with a 4^th cylinder to be exact. I call it a “Geo Metro with issues.” Before I discuss my current car, I have to discuss my past cars, so that you understand both me and my car better.

When I graduated high school, I was given $2,000 to buy a car. I had no idea that this money was coming. We grew up in an apartment, and not only were we poor, but my single mother was shady. I had no reason to price any car other than “on it’s last year.” When I saw the account with $2,000 in it, it was beyond me. I knew I could get something small and reliable, but I had no idea the difference between one car and the next. I tried to shop, to compare, but I would go to people’s houses I found in ads, and just go through the motions. The car I ended up purchasing I bought because I was forced. A job for which I had been training for two months had its final exam coming up the next night. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was to buy the car we were on our way to buy, or I would not have a way to my final exam. The guy told me, “It’ll be okay, as long as you don’t drive it rough.” (This means, “Sign this release form, in case you accelerate.”) It was a Datsun B210. It was crap. It started costing me in repairs at the end of the first month. I had a car.

While it put me into adult debt, when I sold that car, it was getting five miles more per gallon than when I had bought it. My next car was a 79’ Camaro. As bitchin’ as a Bitchin’ Camero may sound, after only a few years, this car gave me a bill once every six months that was always over $500. I was going to college at the time, so I was not making much, so this put me much further into debt. People liked to look at it, but it was very reliable… for that $500+ bill every six months. Now, I got this car repaired across the street at The Pep Boys because of convenience. After a time of doing this, I heard rumor that they took people’s cars for joyrides. I quit going there after they once changed my battery, cause Haus was told that my battery was weak. When they found out that my alternator was not charging my working battery properly, they tried to dodge their responsibility by saying, “It’s too late. We’ve sent the batteries away.” After going over their heads, we walked 30 feet to a side room in the garage, where I was actually able to pick out my battery from this liar’s line up.

Each of my cars did not last 100,000 miles. Not even close. To shop for my latest car, I went to used car lots. This was an experience in itself, but I wanted something close to the present year, and something with an ounce of warranty. I found an economy car, three years old, 39,000 miles on it. It was a stick, and I had never driven stick. I literally had to finish buying the car, then drive it to my second job. Leaving my second job, I had to shake off the tired at 2 AM, and figure out how to operate the world’s most sensitive 1^st gear. (I got a ticket for running a red light, because one night, I was too tired to get stuck at a red light trying to learn how to get this car into 1^st gear.)

Now, in a car that used to get 35 mph, now getting 25 mph, after getting 210,000 miles out of this car for which I paid $5,500, it is time to get a new car. Almost twenty years later, I still don’t know shit about cars, other than I LOVE air conditioning, and I am tired of unfolding my huge frame out of a tiny, metal box. Not only have I gotten my money’s worth out of my current car, this car made up for the lack of money’s worth on my other two cars. I’ve outlasted the SUV period, and got myself to the border of the fuel economy period. I got myself out of debt, and was able to save up at least 75% of the money I will need to get a car that I get to choose, instead of letting my budget choose. I would purchase another Suzuki if they all weren’t so boxy on the inside. (I’m a jacket size 54, so I need shoulder room.) Now cars are coming with Bluetooth technology (when cars used to only have longtooth technology), and many of what used to be perks are now standards. Now, they have auto dealerships that do not force you to haggle (which is almost always a losing deal for the customer, because those sharks do that for a living).

Helpful tip: When you are with a car salesman, you can, at any time, request to see their list price on documentation, and they have to show you. It is law. This means that you get to see what the company paid for the car. Then, offer them that price, and see where they go.

Some financial bullets that I dodged in my last couple of years of owning my current car are: "If you haven't replaced the struts by now, you need to replace them." First of all, anytime someone says, "Well, you probably needed to replace them anyway," they are full of shit. Either they are trying to sell you a repair that you do not need, or they do not know how to fix cars, and just take guesses. I have dealt with both situations. Once, some mechanic thought he could just keep "repairing" stuff, and see how my car does. Even if I did own a $$$ Tree, it was NOT for him. The later happened with the struts on my car. The struts on an economy car are like the shocks on a normal car. I had gone to an alignment place, a smaller name, to just get my alignment done. Seemed like a real nice place. At the bottom of my bill was some repair suggestions. Now, any other suggestion on that invoice came with two things. One, an explanation as to why the repair was actually needed and two, the cost of the repair. When I looked below that, and it said, "Replace struts." there was no explanation and there was no price. When I looked up to ask, the guy was gone. The secretary had to call him back to inform me that this mysterious repair "that I should get" would cost $800. On a fifteen year old car? On something that wasn't necessarily breaking? BS! Then there was the front axle. Okay, that actually is making a racket, but only when I do a sharp u-turn. That might actually go. And the final straw, the head gasket is letting gunk into my whatever. Even my trusted mechanic said, "Engine too old. Cost too much. $700." Before I end up by the side of the road, I am going to start doing my research.

I will keep you updated, as long as I cannot get somebody that knows what they are doing to do this for me. Then again, considering how much I huffed walking up that hill, that car's heart might be medically tied to my own.

Goats Are Pretty

2007-12-01T17:17:00.000-08:00

*This is a review I posted at TheFullPint.Com*

I am here to write the first review of a homebrew. Now, you might be wondering, “How can you write about a beer that nobody but a select few has ever tried.” My answer to that? I have complete faith that one day, despite the brewer, it will be available for mass consumption. More to the point, I have complete… who am I kidding, I have complete faith that this is a Hail Mary thrown to get the brewer off of his ass, and back to the still.

A few months ago, my nephew came to visit me from Alaska. My nephew is a woodsy, hippie, with white-boy dreads put into whatever you call one of those caps. He’s tall, has facial hair, long, lanky limbs and wide eyes. When he walks, he reminds me of an Ent form Lord of the Rings. He had recently opened an Ethiopian restaurant in Fairbanks, (seriously) and used his first month’s profits to take a road trip. (He drove… A CAR… from FAIRBANKS… to SAN DIEGO… based upon his profits from… an ETHIOPIAN restaurant he OPENED …in Fairbanks, Alaska. Just want to make sure that nobody thinks that I am writing two different stories at once.)

So, he brings me this jumbo-sized bottle that holds about 36 ounces. There is a good amount of sediment in the bottom, which is tells me is good to use to cook steak. He pours me a pint of this, and I taste… and, I hold. I swallow. I blame my day for being so impressed, so I do it again. I taste… and I hold. This time, I look at him, because I have talking eyebrows that can say, “What the fuck…” while I am drinking.

You see, I had just had the best beer I had ever tasted. THEE best beer. No, no. Beyond the best “beer.” The best DRINK I had ever had. Even if someone hated beer, they would love this, and immediately upon tasting it, find six separate ways to express it. This beer is like drinking a filet mignon. You sip it, and you hold it, because like a woman with a strong and willing throat, you do not want to let go. Not ever.

Skipping ahead in time, I call both his brother and his mother. I ask them if they had ever tried his beer. Both of them had the same answer. “I’m afraid to.” Remember above, when I said “he’s always like this”? Well, I really REALLY meant that. He does wacky things, and always takes the wacky route to do them. Only recently, have they been paying off. His family had assumed that he would add wacky things to his beer, like mint, or diapers. (Not used. Don’t be sick!) Discretion being the better part of valor, as well as avoiding nausea, they had opted for, well… anything else.

Back to the beer at hand. As well as being the most incredible thing I had ever tasted, it was also incredibly strong. I have to tell you, I am over 300 pounds, but one pint of this beer made me loopy. More than buzzed, less than drunk. I am convinced that nobody needs more than 1 ½ of these beers.

After my second beer, I was officially drunk. Not sloppy, not messy, but sure as hell in the “wow zone.” I was chatty. I was happy to have family again. Two of these beers were more than enough for anybody. Nobody in their right mind would have a third.

Had I been in my right mind, I would have never poured that third and final pint. But, I wasn’t, and my nephew might as well been wearing a red hemp suit and sitting on my shoulder. BOTH of my shoulders. (Despite my state of mind, this drink was STILL the best damn drink I had ever had.) I was still chatty, but my voice sounded like two voices. I could see, but if I did not flex my ocular muscles, then I saw in two voices, too. (Don’t ask.) It was the last of that beer I have had to this date. I miss it like a phantom limb. It felt like so much a part of me, that sometimes I can feel it there. Then, I get in the car and drive just fine. I weep.

Back up again, to the phone call to my sister, his mother. I tell her, “This beer is so good, so DAMN good. There are not enough words to explain how good this beer is. Why did he open a restaurant when he could just open a bottle? Also, this is the strongest beer I have ever tasted. It’s strong, but unlike other strong beers, it doesn’t have that rough, whiskey kick. It’s so smooth, the alcohol sneaks right passed you. One moment, you are a normal person. Next, you’re thinking ‘Gee, goats are pretty.’ You drink this beer, you date a goat, and you even brag about it”

And THAT is where I got the name of this beer, “Goats Are Pretty.” It is so good, so smooth, so strong, it will make you think that goats are pretty.

I hope that he reads this, and hope that it inspires him to make more, and mass produce it. ZACH? YOU HEAR ME? YOU COME BACK HOME! DO WHAT YOU DO BEST. YOU QUIT MIXING RICE WITH STUFF, AND MAKE UNCLE SOME BEER. MY LOVE IS READY TO BE BOUGHT.

Wait, wait. I forgot to make this TheFullPint.Com friendly.

Appearance: Love at first sight.

Aroma: I forgot. My nose had a black out.

Taste: HAVEN’T YOU BEEN READING? FUCKING MAGIC, MAN.

Mouthfeel: WHAT? C’mon… this isn’t even a real question.

Drinkability: You could put this in a baby bottle.

Charity Begins at Home

2007-06-04T18:39:00.000-07:00

From time to time, you hear about Bill Gates donating ridiculous amounts of money to the poor and the downtrodden and that disadvantaged youth. MILLIONS. How incredibly generous of him. How kind and thoughtful. My only problem is from where he gets his money.

You see, Microsoft if a filthy outsourcer. He takes jobs, and has them done overseas for a fraction of the cost. Now, you could argue the moral responsibility of business, or that it does not exist. You would have a point. My point is that I don't want to have to hear valuable news time wasted having his "donations" reported to me. All he is doing is robbing the lower middle class and giving to some of the poor. My hero.

Why can't he, as well as many other companies set up shop here in their "beloved" country (that they can only take from)? That would be charity. He is giving up profits for the good of the people of this country, and in turn, the country itself. I would even listen to a report explaining why it is charity.

I'll tell you why. Because, it is neither sensational or exciting to help people in general. It's always gotta be a cause or program, which, by the way, spends up to 80% paying its staff, with a meager amount going to the actual cause. (See: Red Cross in San Diego, the church in general.) Will it be too late? Will we go the way of the Roman Empire before someone figures out that the middle class pay most of the taxes and support this country?

If you kill the body, the head will die.

Someone's Gotta Be On Top

2007-06-03T20:39:00.000-07:00

Coming of age, every guy is stereotyped as the horndog, and every girl is stereotyped as the one responsible for setting the boundaries. It's there, and not only did we all buy it, we all bought into it, and all perpetuated it. Not only in our actions, but our sense of guilt at being called on it. When I got into college, I figured that everybody, male and female, wants to be desired, and everybody likes sex. What confused me is why I would be treated poorly for desiring my partner. If you're with me, it should mean that you're attracted to me. I know that it wasn't for a lack of desire, because there were many times where desire was demonstrated.* I was getting tired of the initiation being one way.

And that's why this is one of my favorite stories.

I had been dating this woman that was in my psychology class. Like most of us in college, she had several roommates. At one point while visiting, she turned to me and said, "You want to go out to the rock and talk"?
"Yea, sure."
"JUST. TALK."
"Okay, okay."
It was time to make a stand. I wasn't dating her. WE were dating. I was going to honor her wishes.
We go out to this rock, and talk. We are right next to each other. She is on my left, sitting on the rock, and I am standing, leaning against it. This puts our faces level with each other, but I keep my hands to myself. She takes the occasional opportunity to look at me, and a few of those times, I look back. (Cause really, I was there to kiss her, and too much face-to-face would bring down my house of horndog. Big picture, think big picture asshopper.) At one point, she asks,
"Is there anything wrong"?
"No."
More talking goes on, and her hand comes to rest on my shoulder closest to her. Proverbally, she had just blinked. At this point, it was just a matter of time. It was a matter of me keeping my eye on the prize.
We talk some more, and her hand goes to the far shoulder. Still, hands to myself. This is the point where it became a little difficult, because I could have reciprocated, but that would have meant she got what she wanted, and I was still the bad guy for giving it to her. (Uh... you know what I mean!)
There's more talking, and some arm rubbing. Oh, dear lord, Mike. You've proven your point. Just say "Uncle!" Say it inside of her mouth if you want to. Just do it. (tm) The entire left side of my body was very aware that a woman was there, touching and wanting to be touched. Bad left side! Baaaad!
Okay, here's where I thought she might have been onto me. She turns her face so her lips are two inches from my left cheek. She's talking, and seductive puffs of her breath flagulate my face. The left side of my head is burning, and that thing that magnetically pulls your face to her is going off like an air-raid siren. ("Siren." "Rocks." Get it? *sigh*) No! Not... give... in... Eyes... prize... vision... blurry...
Had to end this quickly. What do I do? Slowly yet innocently, I turn my face so my lips are about an inch from hers. I smile, and I TURN BACK. HA! "Ha" is right. I think I damaged something internally.
She kissed my cheek; closed mouth yet full. I leaned into it a little more than I wanted. I chalking her not catching onto my game to her total and totally understandable confusion to my lack of response. I responsed to her kiss with a "Thank you."
By that time, we weren't saying much. I had forgotten most of my English, and she had been busy giving in. By that time, she kept her face pointed at mine. I was considering adjusting the location of the finish line when I felt a finger hook my chin. With hands still to myself, I let her turn my face to meet her.

YES! YESYESYESYES! WINNER! WINNER! WINNER! She was kissing me. Could she feel my smile? They could in China. Despite the fact that we had gone outside to "just talk," she had broken down, made it something else. SHE was, in fact, the horndog. Not a Master Horndog such as myself, but a shy, nice-girl version that actually like all the things I liked. Persecution ends THERE! Seriously, everybody wins. I'm not a bad guy for chasing you, and it's not your job to wait for me to make the first move.

Later, as we were leaving the rock, "Hey, didn't we just come out here to talk"?

*Years later, it would occur to me that being The Keeper of the Boundaries came with its own burden, and many of those negative reactions could be traced back to guilt or just the struggle not to do what you really want to do, but fear being labeled or self-consciousness. It will be years after one enters adulthood that the sexes figure out that the other sex does not think like them AT ALL... which could be a separate entry all its own. What usually solves this is a talk. You agree that saying "not right now" doesn't make someone the bad guy, and neither does being attracted to someone. Really, as you age out of college, women become more comfortable with themselves, therefore their sex drive climbs. Guys tend to mellow out. For about two years, we meet in the middle. Then, women go into their thirties, and their compatible sex partner is... a college freshman *sigh*.

Heroes

2007-05-29T21:09:00.000-07:00

One of my earliest memories was my daily walk home from kindergarten with my mother. There were two kindergarten classes; my mother and I walked home with another mother and her daughter. Her, being a girl and not even in the same class as me, I had no interest in having anything to do with her. It really felt like a kiddy version of an arranged marriage. (I would not turn girl-crazy until I had graduated, and moved onto the first grade.)

The other mother and her daughter were black. This did not mean anything to me, but it meant something to some kid riding by on his bike. I guess he thought that he could make a quick, anonymous hit-and-run when he pedaled by and yelled,

“HEY! NIGGER!”

I almost did not hear it, but could replay it in my mind to figure out why my mother reacted the way she did.

“YOU! COME HERE!” she shouted.

“No, Rose. Just let it go. It’s not important,” the other woman protested modestly. I remember wondering why Mom was so upset. He didn’t even say it to her.

“YOU GET OFF THAT BIKE RIGHT NOW!”

We were just across the street from the school. On the street in front of the school, there was only one lane in each direction, but they were wide lanes. This made her walk to the center of the intersection seem like she was standing on an island in the middle of the ocean. The kid was on his bike, but had one foot on the ground at that time. She got to him, stood over him, and I mean OVER him, and tore him about eight new ones about the ugliness of the word, respect, adults, more ugliness of the word, and something about what she’d do to him if she ever heard him use that word to anybody, adult or not, ever again. As school had just let out, there were people everywhere. They had all frozen, gone silent, and paid as much attention to what she was saying as the child had been doing.

That’s when it hit me.

She was my mother’s friend, and you do not let people talk to your friends like that.

You May Want To Hold Onto Something

2007-04-10T23:16:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I was at a party. It was loud. Not only were a group of women screaming, they were also blowing a whistle. (I put a bounty on that whistle.) I was talking with a friend, and speaking up to make sure I was being heard.

A few words into whatever I was saying, her face started to wince. She put the flat of her hand up, and made the "tone it down" gesture.

...

Okay, at a party where women are screaming and blowing a whistle over the music that was already loud, I'M TOO LOUD.

Dang...

Holiday Programing

2006-11-24T21:58:00.000-08:00

I have two DVRs in my home. (They are cable tv's version of TIVO.) When I had one DVR, I had what I call "TV homework." That's when you have to watch tv so you have more room for more tv. Now that I have two DVR's, I have much more room. One once did one threaten to fill up, and I just started recording more shows on the other one. (No, no. It'll work. You'll see.) In my opinion, I watch a lot of quality programming. I do almost no sitcoms, almost no reality television.

What I have noticed are some trends in holiday topics. It seems that almost all of the shows I watch involve words that I would rather not be focused on.

mother
father
dying
family
together
be with
peace
time of the year
goodbye

and actions, like...

crying
waking up in a hospital
dying
going home
struggling to live, then dying

Okay, I might be asking for it watching both "ER" and "Grey's Anatomy," but dangit. I wonder what the percentages are people that enjoy the holidays vs. people that do not. I ask this, because I drive for a living, and on the road this time of year, the entire population of San Diego seems to be one collective angry asshole.

Except me.

Holidays... Fuck'em!

2006-11-22T22:22:00.000-08:00

Today, somebody asked me, "Doesn't your mother live in Alaska"?

I looked at him, hoping he wouldn't make me correct him. Instead, he asked again. I answered him, "Well, she doesn't exactly 'live' anymore. He had forgotten. It was only a slightly awkward exit from that conversation into the next.

For those of you that have not read this blog from the beginning, my parents passed away about four months apart, about a year and a half ago.

They say that the holidays are a time of stress for people, with all the spending and obligation, and that's why people act the way they do. While I would agree with this, I say the holidays are bitter reminders of bad holidays of years past, or just one big, fat reminder that some people have families, and others do not.

All you ever hear about is this is the time when families to come together. Do families actually answer that call?

Old Saying For The Old

2006-08-27T11:56:00.000-07:00

"Age and wisdom will always beat out youth and exuberance."

Once upon a time, one of my nephews said to me, "I can do whatever I want to you, cause I'm young and quick, and you're old and slow."

So, I said to him, "Yes, but you cannot run forever. Eventually, you will forget. It will slip your mind. You will be in a room, and in that room there will be one door, and in that door there will be ME, AND THEN I WILL..."

"OKAY! OKAY! Stop."

Later, I heard him rustling through his closet. I went to his room, and stood in the doorway. He did not hear me coming. (They never do.) I stood in the doorway, and ... waited.

It was about two minutes, but when he felt "that feeling" he didn't know that. What made him snap around and shout in surprise was realizing that he did not realize exactly how long I had been there, but still realizing exactly how accessible he was.

I smiled, told him, "Remember this" and left.

Don't you tenderhearts out there worry. I'm the mean uncle. For him, it was downhill from there. He's in his late 20's.

Then again, my brother has just made me two BRAND NEW NEPHEWS!!!

"Satan closed my blog. He shivered, then crossed himself, forehead to sternum, shoulder to shoulder. He pushed himself away from the computer made of excrement held up by the desk made of the damned. He tortured souls that day, but gave them an hour for lunch. It was BBQ. After all, he was still Satan."

Dammit, SAY SOMETHING!!!

2006-08-09T20:47:00.000-07:00

When I first started writing blogs, I did them just to get back into the habit of writing. Or, so I thought.

Really, if you take the time, pick a theme (of sorts), write a column regularly, put it out for the world to see... YOU WANT THE GADDAM WORLD TO SAY SOMETHING EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE.

Now, this is not going to stop me from writing. I'm just letting people that inqure "Write anything lately" that there's not a lot of motivation.

As usual, I'm sure I'm going to pay for this somehow, but I'll take negative attention over no attention. I have a folder full of outlined/half-written articles. I'm just not sure if time is a factor.

If a tree falls in the forest, and no one's there to hear it, do I still get to turn it into paper for writing?

2006-07-15T00:02:00.000-07:00

FLYING BLIND FOR TWO DAYS

A few days ago, in the midst of many arrangements, commitments and confirmations online, my computer flashed the sign at me, "Cannot connect with the pop-server."

The problem with this, other than the obvious, is that it does not tell you WHY it cannot connect. It never tells you why it cannot connect. The only way to find out WHY is to find out yourself.

First, you try everything you can with software. You do this, because you can do this while sitting. Of course, that doesn't work. All you get is a squeaky clean computer that "cannot connect with the pop-server." Then, you climb beneath your desk, because you get to wiggle each one of your cords not once, but twice, because you have to make sure "everything is plugged in" at both ends. Add several reboots along the way, and you have a very smooth running machine... that "cannot connect with the pop-server."

Then, you are forced to call your cable modem service provider. I did not have an ear piece this time, so I was forced to press my cell phone with one hand, and type with the other. (Typing with one hand isn't so bad after a while. It feels like I've been doing it for years!) The first person to whom you speak has a set of tests he talks you through. Not so bad, but if those don't work, they transfer you to national help, and they have to make you do those tests again before you go to the more advanced tests.

These tests involve climbing beneath my desk (which, at 300+ lbs. I HATE) unplugging and plugging back in the cable modem, counting solid green and flashing amber lights, sending commands through DOS, oh and waiting. Waiting for your computer to do something on the phone is a very awkward silence, even for nerds.

Nothing worked. So, no internet for two days.

There is also the friend factor. Mostly, I call people to help me think of things I can try that I haven't tried yet. This time? Lots of verbal shoulder shrugs. The last time I went through this, I had to unplug six plugs, load it into my car, drive it to a friend's office, load it just so he could tell me, "Your computer is fine. Look, I'm on the net. Must be one of your cords." Load it, take it home, unload it, climb back beneath my desk, plug everything back in by touch. THEN, I get to go to Nerdateria to the amazing world of ...*drumroll* ethernet cables.

So, I want to be smarter this time around. I was going to make some sort of try with the wire, even though it's only four months old. One nerd-on-retainer told me that the blah-blah was on the motherboard, and that I could buy that blah-blah seperately and plug it in there. (I could provide the details, but trust me, my version was much more interesting. I'm glazing over thinking about it.)

Before I leave for Nerdateria, I dig through the package my provider gave me. There's a ethernet cord, but a USB cord. You may ask, "What's the difference"? The difference is, A LOOPHOLE. I love loopholes. So, I try this cord, and it works. Works works works. This time, no lifting, no loading, no unloading. Much less swearing. And, it only took 135 minutes on the phone with tech support. I did learn one thing, though.

The phrase "motherboard" is missing a word in the middle.

Guest Blogger: Poor Poor Bill

2006-05-18T21:26:00.000-07:00

. . . on my Flu Vacation:

1. Never trust a fart.
2. My bowels really don’t want me to get laid.
3. Don’t invite a new Girlfriend over to nurse you through the sweats. And the runs. And the sweat-chill-groan-ache-runs. It really isn’t that sexy.
4. Never trust a fart.
5. You may get the sympathy vote if you have to leave a very important event because you’re sick.
6. Never give a microphone to someone with the flu. They can’t string together coherent sentences. And the microphone becomes a contaminate.
7. Don’t try to do complicated things, like drive, operate heavy machinery, or play the guitar with the flu.
8. If you think you have to fart. You probably don’t.
9. Don’t start out with the first food being Flaming Hot Cheetos. Even if it’s only 5 or 6. They have a dye in them that can stain porcelain in it’s liquid form.
10. Always keep lots of bottled water around. It’s easier to drink while lying down.
11. Try to keep some very light sugared soda around. It works to keep your sugar levels up a little when you can’t eat solid foods. Cranberry juice works well too.
12. When you are peeing with the flu. Sit down to do it. You may have to fart.
13. Flu Vacation is great for going through and clearing off your DVR. But only on the last day, otherwise you’ll fall asleep in the middle and have to watch the same first half hour 4 times.
14. If you can, take an extra day off work. You just may get the farts at work too. (See 1, 4, 8, 12)

Bill

2006-05-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

SIRIUS Satellite Radio - Underground Garage Rock Radio – Listen to Rock Music on Sirius Satellite Radio – Underground Garage
from: Sirius.com
by Little Steven's Underground Garage

COOLEST SONG IN THE WORLD!
THIS WEEK
"Everyone Knows"
JOAN JETT AND THE BLACKHEARTS
from the forthcoming release, SINNER (in stores June 6th)
BLACKHEART RECORDS

Little Steven's show (Little Steven from Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band and The Sopranos) can also be heard Sunday nights in San Diego 103.7 fm. (www.1037freefm.com)

I had just happened to be in the car when it was playing. It is a fantastic song.

2006-05-01T19:57:00.000-07:00

COLBERT ROASTS BUSH

VH1's "I Can't Get A Date"

2006-04-30T20:46:00.000-07:00

VH1’s I Can’t Get A Date

     VH1 has a new reality show that has me hooked called “I Can’t Get A Date.” They take someone that has problems dating, and investigate what is holding them back. The camera plays the interviewer, and delves into what is going wrong by asking how the subject meets people, where they meet people, what do they do to make conversation, how their last date went, and how long they dated their last partner.

     What I like best about this show is how the interviewer plays a sort of guardian angel in real time. They have a very comfortable conversation about what is going on with the subject, but at the same time, the interviewer does not hesitate in either correcting the subject, or reminding them that they are slipping back into bad habits. The interviewer even speaks to the subject in real time when they add a third person into the mix. The third person is usually a clothing retailer, a hair stylist or an expert of some sort. Also, they are not afraid to ask a professional person’s opinion about the subject or about dating itself.

     What we have discovered with the first four subjects (we’ll call them episodes), is that people tend to build their own walls to compensate for a lack of self-esteem. Sometimes, that comes in the form of “I know they’re not going to like me, so I’m going to make sure they don’t like me. That way, it’s not ‘me’ that they are not liking but my façade.” There’s also the, “I’m going to hide this, because I can only see how ugly it is. If someone likes me, it’s cause they haven’t seen ‘this’ (whatever the “this” may be) yet.” Everything else so far seems to be variations of those two.

     I cannot put my finger on what draws me to this show. I guess there’s sincerity to it that most reality television lacks. No one is trying to be TV’s next “reality star.” These are real people with the truest desire to be with someone to which every, every, everybody can relate. Also, you’re watching a positive reality show for a change. Sometimes it is tough-love, but it is love nevertheless.

One Year Later

2006-04-24T20:56:00.000-07:00

Last March, my mother passed away. Last July, my father followed. The feeling I had at the second passing is so overwhelming, that I still cannot describe it. Mainly, this is because I am not even sure if there is only one feeling, or if you rotate feelings in some attempt to process parts of a whole much too big for one person to handle. I’ll tell you this much; my scalp tingled and I could not stop smirking. If there is a name for that feeling, please let me know.
.
Sometimes I describe myself as a spiritual person. I believe in some sort of higher power. I believe that energy cannot be created or destroyed; only converted. Human are beings that run on electrical impulses, the very thing which runs the universe. So, it only makes sense that we are a piece of the universe that is merely waiting to rejoin the great beyond. The great unknown is only in what form do we reconnect and what do we take with us when we go back to our electrical soup. (And they say you can’t have both spirit and science.)
.
I was told by someone that due to the uniqueness of my situation; losing both parents, that I would not be right in the head for three years. In psychology, they say that they you are as strong as your support group. I am not married, and my siblings live out of state. My brother and sister are both married, and my sister has her children and their families just a few miles from her. I’m not sure what any of that really means except that even the people that went through the exact same thing as I did not experience it in the exact same way. I knew this when my sister asked how I was doing after my father’s death, and her response to my answer was, “You need to get married.” Can’t really talk with them.
.
I can tell you that it does get easier to cope with. (I don’t like the word “better.”) If you listen to yourself, you know when to go out and when to stay in. You have your trigger words, and you wonder if they will come up in mixed company, and you wonder if you will cope, or at least have time to remove yourself from the room.
.
Sometimes I describe myself as someone without a spiritual side. These days, I have little use for faith. (Still don’t.) About one year ago, just after regaining my footing from my mother’s passing, my father soon followed. I had not spoken with my father for thirteen years at that time, but the government still held me responsible for four digit bill with which the mortuary was threatening us. At one point, I quietly asked my mother, “Mom, would it be so much to ask for us to break even on this one”? Two weeks later, the day I was going to write a check to mail to my brother my half of the bill, he received a check from my father’s “estate.” At that time, no one would give us any answers, and as much as we could tell, he had nothing but a rental to his name at the end. I was tempted to trace the check to its source so I could get some answers, but I was ragged, and I had broken even.

2006-04-02T19:37:00.000-07:00

"In an increasingly copycat musical world, true trailblazers are few and far between."

2006-01-08T18:31:00.000-08:00

This is an article that was in today’s Union-Tribune about the idea that originality rarely goes rewarded in the music industry.

“The Reproducers”

http://www.signonsandiego.com/uniontrib/20060108/21.html

Break (Stuff) Dancing

2005-12-19T22:00:00.000-08:00

The other night, I was at a party. It was a nicey-nice wine party. (Which made our Jagermeister and Red Bull a little awkward. I just want to add here that they need to just say it if it’s a wine party. At a wine party, it’s not BYOB, it’s BYOW. Just put it out there. Don’t be coy about it. I don’t want to bust in like one of the Blues Brothers if it’s a violin sort of thing.) The hosts were also serving a German drink made of heated wine with whole oranges, burnt sugar, and other stewed spices called Gloog. (Umlaut over one of the “o”s. Don’t ask which one. Google it, monkey!) The attendees were mostly couples that were professors/intellectuals. This was confirmed for me when at one point, there was a brief nerdoff about German linguistics near my liquor! This was just a case of of two warriors circling each other, struttin’ their stuff and showing their plumage to intimidate their opponent.

So, I went outside…

My goal was to one, cool off. The small house was hot and crowded. It almost rained nerdsweat ™ from the ceiling. My second goal was to draw people outside where cool air could be found. I heard later that a true nerdoff started after we went outside. Men whippin’ out their calculators like they were six-shooters. (Nerds do not walk ten paces. They walk ten meters, and turn around. Or, they agree upon a longitude and latitude, and just go there, hopefully without tripping on nothing. They may not keep their balance every time, but eventually, they do turn around.) One guy at our table outside, an employee at Sony (who was not thoughtful enough to hand out electronics) started calling our picnic table the “VIP Area” loudly enough to be heard inside. Within one hour, every attendee was standing outside (not enough room at the VIP table) watching people breathe fireballs fueled with Bacardi 151. Once again, a party brought down to the lowest common denominator. Just call me Caligula. *bow*

Later, back inside…

There were two Indian women inside dancing to Indian/hip-hop mixes. (crap, I’m going to get the terminology wrong. Last night, in my haze (see above) I claimed that Indians speak Indian. This is the intellectual equivalent of saying that Mexicans speak Mexican, or Americans speak American, and they were not shy about letting me know by their response. I claimed a hot-wine mulligan, and that seemed to work, at least this one time.They ARE Indian. They SPEAK Hindi. (IhopeIhopeIhope.) Still, they were kind about it.

I had noted that it was cool (cause cool is such an intellectual word) seeing people perform the dance moves that I saw on Showtime India Extreme on the AZN Network. When I commented on the moves, I found out that one of the women dancing was a choreographer for bhangra (Too lazy to link it. You gotta Google it.) competitions. She was kind enough to offer to teach me some moves. With a wooden floor, I knew it would be best to go shoeless. So, she starts a move with just feet, and begin to copy it successfully. She calls out that she’s going to add arms, and I cry back, “NO ARMS! NO ARMS!” (When you “add arms,” you add the arm movements, which will take away from the concentration on your feet movements. I WASN’T ready to stop concentrating on the feet movements.) Eventually, we add feet movements and rotating the whole thing in a circle. From what I heard, I did a good job. I did not get to dance long. Despite my making sure that Mongo was not dancing near anything breakable, something broke. With a crash. To the floor. Out of my arms reach. Too close to me.

We were all confused, because nobody hit anything. Then, I figured out that there was a small candle in a glass holder that had a Jurassic Park moment. (You know, where the vibrations of the T-Rex made the surface of the drink ripple.) Poor, poor candle slowly but surely vibrated its way off of the edge of the television set it was upon. (Probably calling for help the entire time, but Mongo was beating the poor wooden floor to death, and with the music turned up, the call went unanswered.) THAT was the end of my dancing.

Later, I heard a quote that came from the kitchen.

In response to the shaking, “What IS that”?
“Oh, Mike’s dancing.”

They peaked out, and I was indeed dancing.

NEW X-BOX 180

2005-12-07T19:39:00.000-08:00

It’s when you find out that you cannot get an X-box 360 until next February, so you turn right around and go home.

Guest Blog: Bacon Reinforced Homeland Security

2005-12-04T10:57:00.000-08:00

This is my first, hopefully, in a series of guest blogs. A friend of mine wrote this as a class assignment after we joked about it at happy hour. While is talks about homeland security, it REALLY talks about bacon, and bacon is what it’s all about.

     Sec. 46910
Grade B+
A somewhat modest proposal for the 21st century
for protecting the good American people from the evils of terrorism

One of the most vital concerns in America today is terrorism. Guarding against another September 11th is at the top of the government’s priority list. One of the most difficult issues faced is the early detection of threats. It is vital that those wishing us harm not board planes so that they cannot use them as weapons and interrupt the travel plans of hundreds of taxpayers.
But how can the most dangerous of criminals be identified while putting the least burden on the average hard working American traveler?  As yet it has not been possible to easily identify potential terrorists. To ensure the safety of the American people, it is imperative that new security measures be implemented. Rather than the current "random" checks by profiling, I propose a simpler yet infinitely more reliable system.
It is a well known that no American can resist free samples; in fact the huge success of the Costco chain can be directly attributed to their practice of giving out a large variety of samples on a regular basis. Hardly anyone in this country actually needs pallets of toilet paper or drums of vegetable oil but yet there are always a large number of people shopping there, most looking around hopefully for a sample table.
While we do not know exactly what most terrorists look like, we do know that Al Qaeda is a Muslim fundamentalist group and that knowledge tells us a few things about them: They do not eat pork, drink alcohol and they hate Jews and Americans.
Keeping the above in mind, I propose a new security checkpoint system. This system can be installed on top of the current lines for metal detectors, which will stay in place.
The first checkpoint will sit at the entrance to the security line. It does not need to be large, only the size of a small fair booth. A very friendly attendant will greet passengers and offer them samples of delicious, fresh off the griddle bacon. The majority of people will be very happy for the free snack and will simply thank the attendant and move on through the line. Of course, this may offend some passengers for either religious or dietary reasons.  Security will make note of these people. No matter the reaction the attendant will smile and ask them to move on to the next checkpoint.
Approximately halfway through the line will be another booth. Another smiling, happy to be American, attendant will greet passengers and offer them their choice of cool refreshing beverage while they wait. They will have their choice of either Budweiser, Jack Daniels or, if they require something kosher, Manischewitz. Of course there are many people in this country that don't drink, they will be sent on down the line with a smile and, of course, security will make note of them.
The final checkpoint does not have the free samples but instead ask passengers a few questions about their experience. A couple of questions will be asked about the samples and if there's anything that would make the process more enjoyable. The final question will be slightly off topic. Passengers will simply be asked which major religion’s God has had the greatest impact on the world. It in choices will be Christian, Jewish and Muslim.  This of course is a trick question as they are all the same God. Passengers will be informed of this and any that get upset will be taken over to security.
This process will of course be watched over by security officers specially trained to look for irate Muslims. People can be taken out of the line at any time if they are behaving strangely. By the third checkpoint a true fundamentalist Muslim should be incredibly upset; they will be taken to security for further questioning. At times non-Muslims may be pulled out of line for questioning. Though they are not the primary targets, if they are acting oddly enough for security to question them chances are they are up to something and a few hours in a cell will do them some good.
In addition to the obvious security benefits, this plan also produces two added benefits. Firstly, even though this adds an extra step in the airline boarding process, customer satisfaction will improve. No true American can resist free food and the free alcohol will be just enough for a pleasant buzz. Also, the smell of freshly cooking bacon will bring to mind pleasant memories of relaxed weekend breakfasts.
On a practical level, this undertaking will give a much-needed boost to the economy. Not only will the need for sample booth attendants directly create new jobs and take thousands off of unemployment, the bacon industry as a whole and Anheuser-Busch and the Jack Daniels Company, both fine American alcohol makers, will increase sales dramatically, leading to the creation of even more jobs.
This system will be far more effective than the random profiling done in airports now. In addition, it will help big businesses and create jobs. Most importantly, it will give people free bacon and, really, isn't that what America is all about?

Supporting The Troop

2005-12-03T16:11:00.000-08:00

A poker buddy of mine was sent off to Iraq. The day before he left, his wife got the car into a major accident. Luckily, there were only minor injuries, but you can imagine how painful it must have been to leave your wife and three kids at that time. The poker group decided to make a care package. There were going to be things like coffee, porn, cigars, some more porn, venison jerky, even more porn to jerky to. This was going to be my contribution. I wanted to make a video of all of his friends and family, so he knew we were thinking about him. After writing this, we discovered that it takes up to six months to send something to someone Over There ™. After hearing Doug say, “I was laughing and crying at the same time,” as a writer, it killed me.

Poker Video for Dougie

Opening scene: Knocking on Mom's bedroom door. Sounds of her giving rushed, hushed instructions. Frantic clomping. Opening of the door. Mom's in bed, bedsheet pulled to her neck. Window open.
     "Mom, I'm going now."
     "Where are you going?"
     "Uh, ... bible study."
     "You're not going up the street to play poker with the boys, are you?"
     "No, Mom. They don't play anymore. They said it wasn't the same without Dad's money."

     Son leaves. Mom heavy sighs. Next camera angle is from Mom's point of view. (P.O.V.) She scoots out of bed, walks over to the window. On the floor there is a clown's wig and one giant shoe. (I have a friend that can loan me this stuff.) She hands the wig and shoe out the window.
     "Slow horn honk."
     "No. You'd better get going. You free Monday?"
     "double honk"
     "Good. Bring some pies."
     "Frantic honking."

     Camera angle leaving Doug's porch, and filming walk up the street to Victor's driveway. It might be funny to have the camera come up with Victor's back turned. He is squatting by the cd player, some super soft rock song is playing. He's singing along, and when he's caught, hits the switch button, putting on Iron Maiden, saying

     "Oh, I was just getting the music ready."

     Four bbq's going. Between the four grills, we have as many different things going as possible, ALL wrapped in bacon. The entire time, we're talking, but you cannot understand what we are saying, because we are constantly nibbling off of each other's grills. If we want, we can rename the meats anything we want. (Random voices)

     "Hey, you try this Iguana? Yea, but you gotta try this SQUID. You try the polar bear? Not as good as this elephant."
(Then, in unison.) "MMMM... KITTEN!!!"

Kitchen scene: We're all washing and toweling off our hands.
          Me: Can you believe it? Four strippers needing help because they got too much pudding on'm?
          Don: What are the odds?
          Bud: What could they do? They forgot towels.
          Me: Can't go into the store like that.
          Don: It would be a crime.

               Sitcom look at each other and laugh. Toss towels to married guys, with sad sad sad looks on their faces. Can even make the wa wa wa waaaaa sound, depending on how things are going.

Back outside: We're all around the table. We can pause, get up, and start munching on the grills again, have desserts and bacon beer, or start the game from here.

First hand: One person sniff's his finger, and says "Hmmm...you can still smell the bacon." Everybody else follows suit, and does the same, making "mmmm" noises. Then, one of us goes, "Did we have bacon fish tonight?" Everyone stops, and can either be disgusted or slowly pick back up their cards and go back to the game, quietly pretending they never heard that.

Twenty Minutes Later: We can use a shot of someone's watch to denote the passing of time. Twenty minutes later, Don has a majority of the chips. Don's daughter comes up three times with Morgan and Doug's daughters in tow, asking "Can I go to _______'s house"? Each time she comes up and distract's Don, his kid takes some chips.

Substitute Dad: We can get an inflatable woman in DOUG'S SILKY SHIRT, and write the word "DOUG" across her forehead. I'm not sure exactly what he could ask, but his son could start asking for things his Dad would not allow him to have.

     "Substitute Dad, can I (fill in the blank)... Really? Thanks. Substitute Dad, can I... really? Thanks."

     Also, with each scene afterward, we can have more and more mayonaise leaking out of the doll's mouth.

One hour after that: Don's and Kid's pile are 65/35.
     Someone says to kid: You're doing pretty good.
               Don:   Has he even won tonight?
              Someone:   Look at his chips.
                Another:  Yea.
           Don shrugs.

New baby scene: Vic's kid's cradle next to the table. On the deal, her cards are flicked into the cradle. Shot inside of cradle, we can rig the cards to stand up in front of baby. Next shot, from baby's angle. Lousy hand. One card can be an Uno card or something. Hand tosses cards in disgust, and starts crying out loud.

Don shot: Looks at his hand. Pulls card out of his sleeve. Leans over, looks at kid's hand. The card he took out of his own hand works in the kid's, so he slips it to him.

Next hand. Vic gets four Aces. Don says, "Nuh uh uh... FIVE aces." Takes the pile. Again, disgust noises.

No need to cheat: Don takes out a 3rd "2," then puts it back. He wins with a pair of twos, and we can all jump in with How can you do that?'s. "How do you do that?"
               Don: I have a pair of two's.
              Someone: Yea, and I have a six. Six beats four!
                Another: You know what, so do I!
                Again:     Me too.

FINAL HAND OF THE NIGHT. All guys have lost everything, except what they are betting in this hand. There is a huge pile of chips, silverware, car lighters, keys, a package of bacon, ect. Girls come up again.
          Don's daughter. Daddy, I wanna...
               Don:     Look! I'm trying to play, here. You wanna go to                     college, dont'cha? Just pick a place, and stay there. Call me on the cell                once you're there. Ok?
          Don's daughter: Yes, Daddy. (I personally would love for her to refer to him                         as Fuckin' Dad, but I'm sure that won't leave these
                        brackets.)

Doug's son mouths the word "HELP." at the girls. She looks worried, but then runs off. Seconds later, Don's cell rings. We hear a one sided conversation on Don's side.

               Don:      What? (pause) You're where? (quick pause) NO, you can't                     spend the night in the hotel! I don't CARE if Sherri said it was                     alright! You're my daughter. I have all the legal documents that                     PROVE I love you. At least, until you're eighteen. (pause)                     MAKEUP? Look, you come home right this instant! You're                     getting another "Take your daughter to work" day. That'll put                     you straight. (pause) Now, honey. Don't make daddy sue you.

While all of this goes on, the kid has got to switch a card with Don to make his the winning hand, and Don's come into a close second. If you like, the five Aces vs. four Aces thing again. You can have Rick start to protest mathematically, and Victor puts out an arm to let the kid do it. When Don gets off of the phone, the kids gotta make the last bet, and call quick. Kid wins, and pulls the pile to him. From beneath the pile, he slips out the Playboy. He holds the cover facing the camera, and says,

          Kid: I love you, Dad.

Outside shot. Kid takes the pile in a sack, and leaves. Down the street, he meets up with the girls. He gives them each a share. (Play theme to C.O.P.S.) They hold up their part, and send a message to their father. Kid can hand makeup to Don's daughter. She takes it saying, "You guys bet makeup?" Then can send her wishes to Doug. Ect ect.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch: In the garage, we're all sittin around lookin sad. We all give a message to Doug. Then, return to looking sad, say

          Vic: C'mon, guys. Let's go inside and fry some bacon.

We all light up, and someone says, "Mmmm... beer battered bacon." We all "Mmmm."
I say: "Can we use that Crisco Dip I brought?"

Optional ending. All of us in bed with his wife in the center, bedsheet pulled up once again. She can be wearing the clown wig, the shoes on her feet, sticking out of the end of the sheet. We can all say "Thanks, Doug." at random times, waving to the camera. Light goes out. Horn goes honk!

End Scene

ONE Of Us Was On A Date

2005-12-01T20:13:00.000-08:00

At the end of every marching band season, there is a banquet. First you eat, then there are awards, and it ends with dancing. There was one year in band where I agreed to give a friend in band a ride to the banquet, because she did not have a car of her own. In addition, she only lived a few blocks away, so carpooling only made sense.

The day before the banquet, she asked if I could pick up her best friend on the way. It was not on the way, but her friend was cute, so it was easy to add her. That evening, I go and pick up my friend. There was nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until we arrived at her friend’s house.

Once we get inside her friend’s house, the friend’s parents are there with a camera. They start taking all sorts of pictures, like we were going to prom. (For those of you that have not gone to prom, that is A LOT of freakin’ pictures.) I played along, but felt like someone that had crashed a stranger’s wedding. Had I been older and wiser at the time, I might have seen the signs. Where my internal alarm began to go off is when the parents removed their daughter from the picture, leaving only my “carpool” and myself in a series of couple’s pictures. Finally, we are allowed to leave. On the way to the car, I complimented her friend’s dress, and got a slap in the arm for it. When I turned to my friend and looked at her, she just laughed it off.

At band banquets, players and their dates usually sit in their section. (When you spend your class time spread across a football field, you generally are most familiar with these players.) So, it was nothing for me to part ways with the people I drove, because I thought that was what they were doing, too.

The award ceremony ended, and the music started. As if on cue, everybody moved to by or onto the dance floor. I sort of remember passing her by and saying hello. I was saying hello to all sorts of people, but I started to notice that the women were awfully chilly. Okay, MORE chilly than normal. Happy?

Finally, the friend that rode with us took me aside to tell me what-for.

“I can’t believe this. You haven’t talked to ______ all night. You have been completely ignoring her. That is no way to treat a date. I… “
“WHAT? We’re not on a date.”
She paused. “What? You’re not”?
“NO! She asked me for a ride to the banquet, and I said yes.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“What? What? What did she tell you”?
“She has been telling everybody that you were taking her to the banquet.”
“I was. As in date”?
“Yes. You were ‘taking’ her to the banquet.”
“No. She specifically said, ‘Can I get a ride.’”
“Okay. Let me go fix this. Everybody thinks you’re an asshole.”
“I appreciate that.”

I watched her make the rounds. She would whisper in someone’s ear. They would make eye contact with me. Then, the nodding would begin, and I knew they had just received the second half of the story. The rest of the night went just fine. Her friend was good enough to make sure they got a ride home from someone else to give me a break.

I will never know what was going through her mind.

Condolences 101

2005-11-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

Condolences 101

When my first parent passed away, many people said that since they did not know what to say, that they did not say anything. After hearing this numerous times, I really felt bad for these people. It must have been rough on them to think of something to say to someone that had lost a parent, much less two.
SO!
I am going to offer some sage advice so that the next time someone loses a parent (or two), that you will practically be grief counselors.

Maybe I should start off by telling you what not to say. One, ANYthing that does not take into consideration the situation, and its priorities. The very night that mother let go from her coma, a friend came to take me out to dinner. On my second drink, she started talking about drinking, and how I need to be careful, because she was worried about me. You know, there were a world of things that needed MORE worrying about than my buzz. (Like… me losing my buzz.)
Another now-ex-friend the second night said if there was anything that I needed… so, I said “I need you to drive me to that happy hour.” Well, the excuses came, and I wasn’t in the mood to be very forgiving, so we argued until we were done. (He had a history of stupidity and selfishness. The argument was my pointing out examples of how his behavior at the time was not an exception, but the rule.) If you say, “anything,” something shit simple should be done, and without discussion. In this case, it should have been offered, but since he did not mean “anything,” any one thing would be too much.

Another friend said, “I did not know what to say. I didn’t want to say “sorry” because I hadn’t done anything. I had nothing to be sorry about. So, I (yadda yadda yadda).

“I’m sorry,” and all the normal things you say might be cliché, but at the time, we want the clichés. We want to know that you know we are suffering immensely, and you wish it would stop. Don’t go in the other direction, and tell us everything is going to be okay. You don’t know that, and nothing from that point is going to be okay for a very long time, so it sounds lazy and condescending. Just let us know that you know it’s bad. Also, check in on us from time to time. These things hit in waves. I, myself have not had one big breakdown moment yet. Does that mean that I passed my time, or is it still waiting?

And this leads me into more talk about drinking. I know drinking keeps coming up, but despite what you read here, the people mentioned above never got a drunken phone call in the middle of the night, never received a call from jail, Mexican or otherwise, never found me unshaven, my clothes dirty, locked in my apartment for days on end, etc, etc. This last case was at a anniversary party, where in the invitation it said, “BYOB.” (Did “B” mean blondes? They knew me better than that.) So, I bring a bottle of Captain Morgan’s, and I start getting some kind of hillbilly intervention. The woman’s family started chirping in. When I went for the second drink, and Mama made a comment, I mentally made that her last free shot. The only thing that made up for this was that the wife made my third drink for me, sorta apologizing for starting the mess in the first place. Again, if you’re actually concerned with how I’m doing, check in. Have me over for dinner, so I have something to think about at night besides never being able to say goodbye.

Other gems from friends were, “Not as talkative as you usually are,” and “You sound drunk, like you were off or something.” Imagine that.

Basically, anything you can do to make their lives go a little smoother is good. Facilitating anything for the person, just so they get a sense that they are not alone in this world; that someone is watching out for them just a little bit. That’s good stuff.

Nightmare

2005-11-21T22:30:00.000-08:00

11/20/05

Last night, I dreamt about my mother. She was still alive, but we found out that she was dying. (From what was never specified.) We had been getting along great, almost like I almost lost her, and was THAT glad to be with her. In the dream, I had to deal with the fact that someday, my mother was going to die. This became worse when she announced in the next scene that she was flying back to Alaska to die. No good reason. Just flying back.
While she was there, she did not die. It was worse than dying. I flew out to her, and found out that she had been withering away from the outside. She did not have the strength to get out of bed on her own. She had no hair on her head, no nose, no lips. Her eyelids were barely there. She had shrunk some, and speech was difficult beyond a few words. She looked like the pharaoh in The Mummy, except small.
When I sat on the bed next to her, she cried out in frustration. It was sickening to see her eyes roll in her head from her suffering. I told her that it was okay, and hugged the bed around her, so as not to hurt her. I lied. It was anything but okay.
This is when I woke up. This is not the first time I have had a dream about my recently deceased mother, but it is, by far, the worst. I do not go back to sleep when these dreams occur. I want to make damn good and sure that the mood I get into from one dream does not influence the next.

God Only Gives Us Wh

2005-11-20T23:44:00.000-08:00

God Only Gives Us What We Can Handle

If you have read this blog from the beginning, you know that both of my parents died this year, four months apart. You also know that I have been left to handle this alone. One of my churchy friends tried to console me (the one that thought it was wise to lecture me about my drinking not 24 hours after my mother went into her surprise coma which she never woke from) with the line, “God only gives us what we can handle.”

THIS… is THEE stupidest line that I have ever heard. So, what you are saying is that because I am stronger, people close to me have to die? About a week or so before my mother passed, I was telling someone that I thought the worst way to lose someone is suddenly. No final words; no goodbye. And then it happens? Why? BECAUSE I DESERVE IT? BECAUSE I AM STRONGER? What a fucking load of shit. Oh, and if that isn’t bad enough, my next parent goes four months later. Oh, and I get to move three times in one year BECAUSE I’M STRONG ENOUGH?

What the phrase is saying, (and the jackasses that think it consoles) is that those of us deemed “strong enough” have to tow the load for societies crybabies and self-pitying, self-proclaimed victims. I get to be “strong enough” so fuck me while the people around me get to feel awkward, or can’t remember why I am not on track.

I think the majority of the world out there is in desperate need of some major trial-by-fires. Some quality, life-shaking, character-building events that will a) strengthen them b) weed them out, Darwin-style and c) at least let someone besides carry the load for a while.

And the ones that I want to get it first and the worst? THE ONES THAT SLING THIS STUPID PHRASE AROUND. Yes. Not that I think it will shake their faith, and by faith I mean, faith in their stupid cliché. I think they would appreciate the attention of Hurricane Katrina or The Cedar Fires. But, if Hurricane Katrina gave them AIDS, THEN they would reconsider that stupid cliché. THEN they can tell me “that’s how it goes.”

Here’s the bottom line. God does not give a crap about us. He doesn’t think about us, and he doesn’t extend his open hands, cupped from the clouds. His gift to us? He gave us the beginning, and he gave us the tools. Everything started as primordial muck, but WE got the brains and opposable thumbs. The rest is up to us. So, the next asshole that tries to feed me that blessing-in-disguise bullshit is going to find out how much of a size 11 Doc Martin their colon can handle

Asshats.

MTVs Made

2005-11-07T22:19:00.000-08:00

MTV’s Made ™

I know. None of you watch MTV. At least, nobody in my age “demographic” does. (You “age out” of MTV’s demographic at 34. At 34, you are not necessarily ready to “age out” of things.) They all but stopped playing music videos long ago, opting out for inexpensive, reality television. (MTV2 will play your videos for you, but you have to pay for that service. Didn’t they learn from that mistake the first time?) Besides, they… (WHAT WAS I GOING TO SAY BEFORE I ANSWERED THE DAMN PHONE?)

I, for one, would never be someone to try and sell you on MTV as a whole. For the most part, it is Tn’A fluff, and therefore could only sell parts of the network to parts of my inner circle (not forgetting to kill the witness’). On the other hand, good is good and bad is bad. Something good should not be judged or punished just because it landed on the wrong channel. By giving good shows good ratings, it sends a message that quality can sell. That is my goal in this blog; to convince you that MTV’s Made ™ is worth watching.

What Made ™ does is take someone of high school age, and in four to six weeks, help that person achieve a goal that a) they never could have on their own and b) is so far out of their personal comfort zone, that the goal is usually something opposite of the activities they had done up to that point in their lives. The students that participate in this transformation are required to treat it as any extra-curricular activity, so it cannot interfere with their current studies or other extra-curricular activities. They get a trainer called a “Made Coach” to whom they report to and with whom they cooperate. Generally, the challenge for the coach is that they have to make up for a decade of training in six weeks. At the end of the show, there usually is a competition for the student to use his new-found talent in, as well as to measure how far he or she has come. What I like about the show is that whether they win or lose places very low on the list compared to the other life-lessons Made highlights.

The Social Aspect – Social expertise is one of the common themes that run through all of the episodes. A symptom of someone wanting to break out and be something else is that they want to be noticed or known, but do not have the social skills to go out and find the attention in of itself. Almost every episode has some sort of training that strengthens the child’s skills. Usually, this covers going out, meeting new people, starting and maintaining a conversation. All activities that can be very challenging to someone that feels like they are on the outside. Seeing this personal transformation occur is nice, but seeing its value in relation to general success being emphasized is what I really like about the show. With a little practice, I think every subject came out of their shell, and with the fear of the unknown out of the way, realized that it was not the big deal they thought it was. This may sound basic to adults, but I can remember wanting more as a teenager, but also thinking that I did not have to “get along” to get anywhere.

Working Toward A Goal – I say this with an emphasis on “work.” There are many stories of these kids winning their competition or making the teams that they have worked so hard to join. Others do not reach the goal they initially intended. Regardless, another aspect of this show that keeps bringing me back is all of the important personal developments they take away from them that they will use for the rest of their lives. The idea that the success or failure does not come from whether or not they won or lost, but the sincerity of their effort. Sometimes, participants become overwhelmed. Sometimes, they break down. The idea is that it is okay to have your breakdown moment. You take some time; get it out of your system, and then you get your head back in the game. I cannot remember how many things I did not try because I was not instantly an expert at them over my lifetime. You might have a talent that you are not aware of, and it is just waiting just on the other side of a hill that you are unwilling or have been told that you cannot climb, because it “just not you.” It is good to see that good things do not come easy to others besides myself, but that is what makes them worth so much more once you achieve them. Also, once you gain a skill, it is not something that you have borrowed. It is something that is your own to use as you see fit.

Breaking out of Your Assigned Role In Life -- I feel that when people are growing up, they are regarded as being one way, and so they get filed into a rut of everything they do revolving around that rut. Some examples are the cheerleader that only cheers and shops, the football player that only goes to football practice and hangs out with his teammates, the metal head that only has a few friends and is only looking for negative attention. I personally grew up playing the tuba, so when I went looking for a creative outlet, it would usually be the next concert band in which to play. It was not until college that I even tried creative writing and only until a few years ago that I tried improvisational comedy. Made ™ has had the cheerleader that wanted to become the BMX biker, the football player that wanted to be an opera singer among many others. Another symptom of wanting to do something radically different is that there is something inside a person that cannot get out because they are being told, “Doing that is not ‘you,’ this other thing is you. You’ve done this all your life. Just stick to what you know.” I like the idea of people being deep, complex characters as opposed to caricatures that are there to decorate somebody else’s life.

The True Victory You Will Take Everywhere -- Even though they might not succeed at what they initially attempt, they succeed in realizing that if they want something, they can work at it, and do whatever they want in life. Life offers more choices than the category in which you are placed so early in life. If you are willing to leave your comfort zone, and strong enough to be off balance for a while, you can be almost anything.

I guess what I like about the show is that it demonstrates the strength of faith, hope, and determination; three things of which that I have just about ran out. Made demonstrates not only that there are talents out there for everybody, but hidden talents that must be dug for to be unearthed.

Now, I must go to the gym, and practice doing pull-ups.

Treat Or Else

2005-11-01T17:59:00.000-08:00

I want to discuss a growing trend amongst our youth and not-so-young. It seems that for some people, for some entire families, Halloween has become nothing more than “Hold-Out-Our-Bag” night.

On Halloween, I was at a friend’s house helping him give out candy. I noticed that about half of the kids did not even say “Thank you,” much less “Trick-or-Treat.” I am writing to you about the worst. This family of four walks up, the oldest child first. Their ages seems to range from fourteen to seven. None of them had costumes, (unless you count strapping your school backpack to your chest a costume) none of them said thank you, and even the little one did not say “Trick or Treat.” To top it all off, the mother was with them, watching from the sidewalk. No dignity. No class.

Part of the deal, part of the ritual of the night, the reason you get to go out and ask strangers for candy is that you took the time to entertain them with some sort of costume beyond the daily dress of rude child. You get to participate with the subtle form of extortion because it is part of the holiday, but that comes with a few basic rules.

On the radio today, I heard people say they give in fear of what would happen to their houses. When your costume is “ungrateful child,” I say that is where you draw the line. This is especially when so-called parents are teaching their children an overblown sense of entitlement. (You think that attitude and lesson does not carry over into their everyday life?) I am not suggesting that you get into any kind of debate or altercation with a bad parent, or the poor children caught in the middle by her bad teachings. I say you send a subtler message.

Next Halloween, you keep two bowls by the door. You keep one bowl full of candy for people PARTICIPATING in Halloween, and one full of broccoli. As a child that had to carry broccoli, and as a parent that encouraged the action that led to Punishment Broccoli ™, (and what broccoli ISN’T punishment), the message has to be clear.

And if it’s not, you didn’t deserve candy in the first place. Better off dodging coal at Christmas.

2005-10-30T00:21:00.000-07:00

This is going to be my ecetera page. If I think something is general enough to appeal to a majority to you (me), then it will wind up here.

If I can recover them off of my old hard drive, I will probably include some of my older writings here. (lightning storm @ 10:30 PM + west coast naivete + sleep pill at 8 PM = cursing + restarts + false hope + new computer)

As much as I hate to bring it up, I am starting this, among other reasons, because my parents died this year. The two events happened four months apart without warning, and it has left me stuck inside my head. When I told someone about my mother's death in March, they asked, "Well, do you have family to help you though this"? My answer was, "I have family, but they sure as hell ain't there for me." After my father's death, my sister e mailed me twice to see if I was okay. Despite my answer both times, she never made an actual phone call, and she never asked again. In regards to my brother, I spoke to his wife more than I did he. His excuse was that there were no cell phone calls allowed at work. My reasoning was that a) I should not have to make three phone calls to his 1. home 2. cell and 3. AND work number at this time, b) he is the manager, time to rewrite that and c) since both of his parents died, even if he was trying to set an example, could he have considered this and exception to the rule?

In reality, when my mother died, my entire family actually died. Truth is, my family, as a whole, died years ago. My illusion of my family was severed when I lost my mother. (My father and I had been estranged for 13 years when he passed. There might be more on that later, but I doubt it. On the rare occasion when I tell that story, it's one shot, and I am done for the day.)Several people "noted" thing like, "Oh, you were not that close to your father. It's no big deal," and "You didn't love your father, anyway."

When your parents pass, there are shifts in the structure of your life. You are suddenly at the top of the pyramid, and that is odd. You never planned for that, because imagining a world without the people that brought you into it is very painful, even if they are not in your life. Knowing they are out there somewhere means that even if you are not speaking with them now, someday it could be better. After death, there is no "is." Everything becomes "was," with no changing it. (Sorry President Clinton.)

When I lost my mother, people e mailed some nice things about me. When I lost my second parent, it was oddly quiet. I imagine that it went off of everybody's scales, because I know it did mine. For the first week, I could only smirk. People offered the usual, "if you need anything," but the hard part is knowing what you need. There is anger and frustration that does not come out all at once, but leaks out; blends with your normal day. Most of us have one week to ourselves, then the world spins again, spinning you with it. I have been told that it will be three years until I am right again. All I know is that I do not want to have to not say it, and I do not want to apologize if it gets away from me occasionally. I stay home alone rather than make excuses. As far as calling someone goes, you look at the phone, you go through your registry, but many days, you never dial. It's not that you refuse to call, per se. Moreso, you just keep putting it off, finding things to do until it is time to go to bed. For the most part, you need someone to check on you, and having to ask for it ruins it.

I have things I need to say, and things you want to say. When you start a blog, you can imagine that you have people that listen. Also, I can break this stuff down into pieces, because it will not all fit in one rant. Sorry about starting this song in a minor chord. Ask anyone that knows me. There will be a keychange soon enough.