Yes, okay… fine. This is going to about a trip to Mexico. Hey, that’s as “international” as Vicky and I can afford right now, okay?
So, our big trip to Cabo is approaching and I cannot wait. I’ve had it with working and schooling and waking and standing and locomoting and moving and respirating. (I’ll be staying in the Intensive Care wing of the resort.) It’s been over a year and a half since our last trip and I am DUE!
Vicky and I will be going to the RIU Palace in Cabo. This is a place recommended to us by people we know – well, Vic knows them – and we hear it’s wonderful. Now, I’ll tell you all about the amenities after we get back (so I can tell you what’s really there rather than what I hear is there); today, I just want to tell you about the reviews.
Of course, I’m starting to settle into “vacation mode”, that peculiar condition where you might as well already be on vacation for all the good you are to anyone. So, my mind has been set on 24-hour RIU. One thing I’ve started doing has been to read all the reviews.
Okay, that was a mistake! The reviews make me wish I was going somewhere else… like HOME!
Let’s start with the good reviews. The good reviews usually start with “It’s not that bad”… way to sell! They talk about how they were never robbed or mugged or beaten by police once… which, in my book, is always reason to celebrate. They mention how the food isn’t the best – and this is a good review? – but they didn’t once vomit.
In a way, the good reviews worry me more than the bad ones.
The bad reviews are oftentimes just funny.
One reviewer said her husband fell down a flight of stairs – but he wasn’t drinking! No drinking! He really wasn’t drinking!... I wonder if it’s at all possible he might have been drinking – and how it took the resort staff a long time to get him help. Several thousand other guests might do that… maybe…
Another reviewer mentioned that she had $400 stolen from her. Why the hell did you bring $400 – cash – to Mexico???
It’s not just that the reviewers are stupid. They just seem consistently suspicious.
My favorite one, though, the one that has put all suspicion out of my mind and readied me to just sit back and enjoy the mayhem, was posted today. I’m going to quote directly for you. This one was from another woman… and why do they all seem to be from women?... who starts by saying that the resort was “nothing short of being a complete and udder waste of my time and money.” You can’t make that stuff up.
But it gets better. “The whole resort is a joke, 24-hour food service? They don’t serve past 10:30 pm, and they don’t start serving until next day at 7 am. The food was comparable to cheap frozen dinners, (tasteless and awful) all 6 adult people and 3 kids in my party suffered from food poisoning.” The food was horrible and we hardly got any!!!
Even away from the resort, this woman wasn’t happy. “I scheduled a excursion of parasailing at the hotel lobby, when we went to the site on the beach they told me that they must take me by jet ski to the main boat so I could parasail, I asked for a life jacket vest since I don’t know how to swim plus Cabo San Lucas is also very well known for their high tide and big waves, they would Not supplied me with one! They told me that they are professional and I don’t need one!!… They assured me of my safety and pleasant experience!!, sure enough, shortly after that statement they the jet ski flipped over on my leg which I got injured from and they dropped me in the ocean which resulted of ruined my $700 digital SLR camera.” If I may, I’ll translate this into English for you. She wanted to engage in a dangerous sport. She arranged to engage in a dangerous sport. But she felt that going to engage in the dangerous sport was… well, too dangerous. She wanted to go out and sail over the water but didn’t want to be near the water. She couldn’t swim but agreed to get on a jetski without a life “jacket vest”. Then – and, really, isn’t this the best part? – when she falls in the water, she doesn’t blame her own stupidity for being talked into getting on the jetski, she blames someone else (big surprise!). AND, apparently, she was dumb enough to bring her (apparently not waterproof) digital camera with her!
Then, she closes by saying “There was no where to run to or escape.” Lady! You’re surrounded by resorts! You’re not on Riker’s Island! Not even Wesley Crusher’s Isthmus! Get a fucking clue!
Is it possible this woman’s correct? That the food is horrible and in such small portions? That they waste udders? That they force you onto jetskis and break your cameras? That there is NO ESCAPE?
Yeah. Sure. Maybe.
But I live for danger.
… oh, and we got the name of another resort just in case… did I mention I want to parasail?
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
My name is…
Today’s my birthday. Now, after you’ve taken the empathetic heavy sigh, I thought I’d provide you something a little different with regards to the daily bloggeration… my name.
I was named after my uncle Kenneth, I was told when I was a child. Why? What did he do, I’d ask. I assumed you had to do something special to have something named after you, the way my elementary school was named after John Adams or my high school was named after… well, an elongated depression between uplands, hills, or mountains. Okay, so my high school doesn’t count but I figured my uncle must have done something… really… What? Nothing? Nothing at all? You just liked the name?
Well, then, it can’t really be considered “being named after him”, now can it? And then, it turned out my uncle Kenneth wasn’t really my uncle at all. My mom was adopted. He was kind of my pretend uncle.
This just gets shakier and shakier.
It gets worse when you get to my middle name, Russell. “Why was I named Russell?” I’d ask as a child, usually trying to find something – oh for the love of god, anything! – interesting about my name. My mother would answer, “You were named after your dad’s, um, some guy, um, I think they were friends or something, um, oh – look! – a butterfly!”
Nobody’s entirely sure why I was named Russell. I’m guessing that, once again, they just liked the name. That’s not a bad thing, mind you. If Vicky and I ever have children, the names we have in mind are ones that we like. If my mother had just said that, things would have been on much more solid ground.
As a boy, I had choices, some known. I was totally in the dark about others. I had no idea I could be called Rusty. The thought never even occurred to me, which is probably a very good thing. I mean, can you imagine me with the name “Rusty”. Yeah, that’s scary. No, I eschewed the middle name and played around only with the first.
Kenneth.
Ken. Kenny. Kenneth. Those were my options.
As a child, people called my Kenny. Friends found it friendly. Enemies found it easy to remember when beating me up. (I was a puny kid with glasses, what do you expect?) But, by the time I got to high school, I was tired of it. And, after all, who wouldn’t be? People would say, “Kenny?” and I would reply, “What-ey?” I was sick of the childish-sounding name! So, one day I dropped the “ny” and became “Ken”. Just like that, people started calling me “Ken”. I don’t know how it worked; this was, after all, pre-Internet.
By the time I hit my 30’s, I was tired of Ken, too. It’s just so guttural. “Ken. Ugh. Food.” It’s hardly an adequate representation of me. So, I decided to screw all derivatives. I was going with Kenneth!
… unfortunately, the rest of the world stuck with Ken. Kenneth was a better sounding name. It had substance and heft. It sounded cerebral, as if it was “neth” better than “ken”.
But nobody was buying it. And this was post-Internet.
So, I just learned to live with it.
Occasionally, people will still call me Kenny and, I have to say, I find it rather nice at times. As I get older, Kenny has a refreshing ring to it. I wouldn’t want to be called it all the time, mind you, but it’s a friendly change of pace.
There was a woman I worked with at Linksys who always called me Kenny. She was the only one there to do it, so I let her. Her name was Karen and she’d always say it was “Karen with a K”. (To which I would reply, “Thanks for clearing that up.” She never got it.) So, I guess mine is “Ken with a K” for the easily confused.
Meanwhile, yes, Russell has been completely ignored. Like the extraneous male nipples, I don’t really do anything with Russell… and here I will end with a quandary.
I know Ken La Salle rather well. This Russell La Salle guy, though, is a stranger to me.
I was named after my uncle Kenneth, I was told when I was a child. Why? What did he do, I’d ask. I assumed you had to do something special to have something named after you, the way my elementary school was named after John Adams or my high school was named after… well, an elongated depression between uplands, hills, or mountains. Okay, so my high school doesn’t count but I figured my uncle must have done something… really… What? Nothing? Nothing at all? You just liked the name?
Well, then, it can’t really be considered “being named after him”, now can it? And then, it turned out my uncle Kenneth wasn’t really my uncle at all. My mom was adopted. He was kind of my pretend uncle.
This just gets shakier and shakier.
It gets worse when you get to my middle name, Russell. “Why was I named Russell?” I’d ask as a child, usually trying to find something – oh for the love of god, anything! – interesting about my name. My mother would answer, “You were named after your dad’s, um, some guy, um, I think they were friends or something, um, oh – look! – a butterfly!”
Nobody’s entirely sure why I was named Russell. I’m guessing that, once again, they just liked the name. That’s not a bad thing, mind you. If Vicky and I ever have children, the names we have in mind are ones that we like. If my mother had just said that, things would have been on much more solid ground.
As a boy, I had choices, some known. I was totally in the dark about others. I had no idea I could be called Rusty. The thought never even occurred to me, which is probably a very good thing. I mean, can you imagine me with the name “Rusty”. Yeah, that’s scary. No, I eschewed the middle name and played around only with the first.
Kenneth.
Ken. Kenny. Kenneth. Those were my options.
As a child, people called my Kenny. Friends found it friendly. Enemies found it easy to remember when beating me up. (I was a puny kid with glasses, what do you expect?) But, by the time I got to high school, I was tired of it. And, after all, who wouldn’t be? People would say, “Kenny?” and I would reply, “What-ey?” I was sick of the childish-sounding name! So, one day I dropped the “ny” and became “Ken”. Just like that, people started calling me “Ken”. I don’t know how it worked; this was, after all, pre-Internet.
By the time I hit my 30’s, I was tired of Ken, too. It’s just so guttural. “Ken. Ugh. Food.” It’s hardly an adequate representation of me. So, I decided to screw all derivatives. I was going with Kenneth!
… unfortunately, the rest of the world stuck with Ken. Kenneth was a better sounding name. It had substance and heft. It sounded cerebral, as if it was “neth” better than “ken”.
But nobody was buying it. And this was post-Internet.
So, I just learned to live with it.
Occasionally, people will still call me Kenny and, I have to say, I find it rather nice at times. As I get older, Kenny has a refreshing ring to it. I wouldn’t want to be called it all the time, mind you, but it’s a friendly change of pace.
There was a woman I worked with at Linksys who always called me Kenny. She was the only one there to do it, so I let her. Her name was Karen and she’d always say it was “Karen with a K”. (To which I would reply, “Thanks for clearing that up.” She never got it.) So, I guess mine is “Ken with a K” for the easily confused.
Meanwhile, yes, Russell has been completely ignored. Like the extraneous male nipples, I don’t really do anything with Russell… and here I will end with a quandary.
I know Ken La Salle rather well. This Russell La Salle guy, though, is a stranger to me.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Twice legal…
Back then, the Warehouse Restaurant in Newport Beach had a dark, almost seedy décor. October 16, 1986 fell on a Thursday, so I’m not entirely sure my 21st birthday didn’t start getting celebrated a day late. Then again, I was 21 at the time so who can tell? All I know is that I spent the weekend in an inebriate state. Richard Lind and I drank. Sean Roberson and I drank.
But when I went to the Warehouse, I went with Rosa. I remember clearly how much I was surprised. As usual, I put on a suit – I used to like dressing up back then… back when I would fit in a suit – and Rosa drove us to and parked in a seemingly random parking structure. But when we walked into the Warehouse, well, I was kind of blown away. It was my kind of place. It looked like the kind of place the Rat Pack would eat at and, though I wasn’t too aware of exactly who the Rat Pack were at the time, that was the kind of place I wanted to be. Rosa told me she had looked for a place where I could eat a good steak and drink… my fill…
I don’t remember what I was drinking back then. The other day, I seemed to remember Tequila Sunsets. This morning, I recalled that the first legal drink I ordered was a scotch on the rocks. Odds are, I kept trying different drinks. After dinner, we went down to the bar, which was also equally seedy and dark, and we listened to a band and I drank. I drank so much, I started using furniture and the wall to guide me when I went to the bathroom.
I remember this because, as it turns out, I’ve got a hangover this morning. There’s a shock. Vicky, Jeff, and I had a little dinner on our patio last night and my bride and I polished off two bottles of good, red wine. Okay, she helped. I did most of the polishing.
This year’s birthday, my 42nd, hasn’t been my favorite – but, then, what birthday is? I’ve always hated my birthday – but Vicky’s done what she can with a depressed Ken. And I'm glad to have her around. I’ve lost a lot of friends in the last few years, some intentionally, some just because. And that’s probably what has made me so nostalgic of late, thinking of the old times and people I miss, some things that were just unavoidable.
And then, I look forward and I realize how anything is possible.
Do this experiment. Cut your age in half – that’s simple math, people – and try to recall what your life was like back then. At 21, I was a man becoming. I didn’t know what direction my life was taking me in or even how I could lead it. I knew I wanted to write. I knew I wanted to act. I knew I wanted Rosa around and it would help to move out of my mom’s house. But I hadn’t finished my first book and I hadn’t done a show in four years. Rosa and I would soon move in together – and marry shortly after that – but I had no idea what being a good partner or even a good friend meant.
Now, with 42 just a day away, I think about everything that’s happened between now and then and how you live through extraordinary changes you can never see coming. Now, I am a writer. I’ve finished a number of books. I’m in college. I have a career. Though things with Rosa ended tragically, I am blessed with Vicky and I have a clearer idea of just how much that means and what I can do to help things work. True, I’ve lost a lot of friends but I can make more… somehow, I’m sure.
Life is good.
Let’s see what 63 holds…
But when I went to the Warehouse, I went with Rosa. I remember clearly how much I was surprised. As usual, I put on a suit – I used to like dressing up back then… back when I would fit in a suit – and Rosa drove us to and parked in a seemingly random parking structure. But when we walked into the Warehouse, well, I was kind of blown away. It was my kind of place. It looked like the kind of place the Rat Pack would eat at and, though I wasn’t too aware of exactly who the Rat Pack were at the time, that was the kind of place I wanted to be. Rosa told me she had looked for a place where I could eat a good steak and drink… my fill…
I don’t remember what I was drinking back then. The other day, I seemed to remember Tequila Sunsets. This morning, I recalled that the first legal drink I ordered was a scotch on the rocks. Odds are, I kept trying different drinks. After dinner, we went down to the bar, which was also equally seedy and dark, and we listened to a band and I drank. I drank so much, I started using furniture and the wall to guide me when I went to the bathroom.
I remember this because, as it turns out, I’ve got a hangover this morning. There’s a shock. Vicky, Jeff, and I had a little dinner on our patio last night and my bride and I polished off two bottles of good, red wine. Okay, she helped. I did most of the polishing.
This year’s birthday, my 42nd, hasn’t been my favorite – but, then, what birthday is? I’ve always hated my birthday – but Vicky’s done what she can with a depressed Ken. And I'm glad to have her around. I’ve lost a lot of friends in the last few years, some intentionally, some just because. And that’s probably what has made me so nostalgic of late, thinking of the old times and people I miss, some things that were just unavoidable.
And then, I look forward and I realize how anything is possible.
Do this experiment. Cut your age in half – that’s simple math, people – and try to recall what your life was like back then. At 21, I was a man becoming. I didn’t know what direction my life was taking me in or even how I could lead it. I knew I wanted to write. I knew I wanted to act. I knew I wanted Rosa around and it would help to move out of my mom’s house. But I hadn’t finished my first book and I hadn’t done a show in four years. Rosa and I would soon move in together – and marry shortly after that – but I had no idea what being a good partner or even a good friend meant.
Now, with 42 just a day away, I think about everything that’s happened between now and then and how you live through extraordinary changes you can never see coming. Now, I am a writer. I’ve finished a number of books. I’m in college. I have a career. Though things with Rosa ended tragically, I am blessed with Vicky and I have a clearer idea of just how much that means and what I can do to help things work. True, I’ve lost a lot of friends but I can make more… somehow, I’m sure.
Life is good.
Let’s see what 63 holds…
Friday, October 12, 2007
We have wasps! Lots of wasps!...
Lots of crispy, crunchy dead wasps!
That’s right, bitch! I smoked ‘em!
(Which is in no way saying that I rolled them in paper and, lit them on fire, and inhaled them… though it has been a while since my last real good evening of smoking. I mean, I had two last week but that was nothing compared a whole night of scotch and smokes… um… but I digress…)
You see, Vicky and I had these nice decorations on our patio. We hung these pretty, paper lights (each one a colored globe of paper with a light in the middle) from our patio umbrella and also put up a nice, wooden, wind chime that bro-in-law Mike had given us from Hawaii. (Which is not to say we were too lazy to pick up our own when we were in Hawaii. Not at all. We were too cheap.)
We first noticed the wasps sometime in August. I know because I think that’s the last time we sat out on the patio for dinner. Occasionally, I’d muse about how wasps love wood (the tree kind, you pervert) and how they’re probably setting up a nest inside the wooden wind chimes and, a bit more occasionally, Vicky would muse about how I oughta get off my fat, lazy ass and do something about them. Ah, wives.
Then, as I was sitting on the patio one day, I noticed a wasp actually go into the wind chime. Could I be right, I wondered? So, I walked underneath the chime and put my face beneath it.
Here’s a tip. If you think a wind chime is filled with wasps, DO NOT put your face beneath it!
Turned out it was filled with wasps and I ran like hell, leaving a brown, runny trail. Thankfully, they were domestic wasps and were too busy complaining about the price of bee honey, really good bee honey, not the shit that gets you killed.
Don’t worry, I told Vicky. Being an old pro at wasp eradication… what? What do you mean, you don’t believe me? Listen, when I was a kid, growing up in Santa Ana, I was a wasp hunter, baby. (That and my mom and older brother wouldn’t do it… dammit…) It’s simply a matter of taking a stick and knocking down the nest late at night when they’re less likely to attack… oh, and running the fuck away.
Of course, when the nest is inside a wind chime…
So, I waited a few days – or weeks if you hear Vicky tell it but what does she know – until I could stall no further and Vicky was making me sleep on the patio. I took a scissor and cut down the wind chime… and ran the fuck away. Then, it took me several more weeks to toss out the wind chimes… wait… have I thrown that away, yet?
So, all was good and happy again at Casa La Salle.
More or less.
Kinda.
See, the thing is, Vicky was out on the patio one day and saw more wasps hanging out on her paper lights… and ran the fuck into our screen door… and through it! Grace under fire, that’s my Vicky. But, as I’ve said, I’d have no purpose in that home if it wasn’t for pest eradication. It was time to take out the lights.
“Don’t worry,” I told my spazzing spouse. “I’ll just clip them down at night when the wasps are gone. It’ll be a breeze.” So, that night – or the next – hey, better late than never! – I went out with scissors in hand and clipped the ties that hung them up. I clipped one. I clipped the next. I clipped another. And then, Vicky pointed out the mass of wasps hanging out on the next light and we both ran.
The next day, Vicky bought some of that wasp spray you’ve heard so much about. It must be new… or my mom was fucking with me every time she handed me the stick and told me to go a’hunting.
“You might want to read the can,” Vicky told me.
“Read the - ? What the hell, woman? I’m a man. I don’t read no directions!” I gave the can a shake, held it up to the wasps…
“Overkill” is probably too tame a word for what happened. A thick, foamy stream covered the wasps and the lights and the umbrella and that patio table and the patio and the street and the next house over… but you can be goddamned sure there weren’t any fucking wasps!!!!
The next day, crunchy, dead wasps littered the patio table’s surface.
My work was done.
Now, who’s gonna fix this screen?
That’s right, bitch! I smoked ‘em!
(Which is in no way saying that I rolled them in paper and, lit them on fire, and inhaled them… though it has been a while since my last real good evening of smoking. I mean, I had two last week but that was nothing compared a whole night of scotch and smokes… um… but I digress…)
You see, Vicky and I had these nice decorations on our patio. We hung these pretty, paper lights (each one a colored globe of paper with a light in the middle) from our patio umbrella and also put up a nice, wooden, wind chime that bro-in-law Mike had given us from Hawaii. (Which is not to say we were too lazy to pick up our own when we were in Hawaii. Not at all. We were too cheap.)
We first noticed the wasps sometime in August. I know because I think that’s the last time we sat out on the patio for dinner. Occasionally, I’d muse about how wasps love wood (the tree kind, you pervert) and how they’re probably setting up a nest inside the wooden wind chimes and, a bit more occasionally, Vicky would muse about how I oughta get off my fat, lazy ass and do something about them. Ah, wives.
Then, as I was sitting on the patio one day, I noticed a wasp actually go into the wind chime. Could I be right, I wondered? So, I walked underneath the chime and put my face beneath it.
Here’s a tip. If you think a wind chime is filled with wasps, DO NOT put your face beneath it!
Turned out it was filled with wasps and I ran like hell, leaving a brown, runny trail. Thankfully, they were domestic wasps and were too busy complaining about the price of bee honey, really good bee honey, not the shit that gets you killed.
Don’t worry, I told Vicky. Being an old pro at wasp eradication… what? What do you mean, you don’t believe me? Listen, when I was a kid, growing up in Santa Ana, I was a wasp hunter, baby. (That and my mom and older brother wouldn’t do it… dammit…) It’s simply a matter of taking a stick and knocking down the nest late at night when they’re less likely to attack… oh, and running the fuck away.
Of course, when the nest is inside a wind chime…
So, I waited a few days – or weeks if you hear Vicky tell it but what does she know – until I could stall no further and Vicky was making me sleep on the patio. I took a scissor and cut down the wind chime… and ran the fuck away. Then, it took me several more weeks to toss out the wind chimes… wait… have I thrown that away, yet?
So, all was good and happy again at Casa La Salle.
More or less.
Kinda.
See, the thing is, Vicky was out on the patio one day and saw more wasps hanging out on her paper lights… and ran the fuck into our screen door… and through it! Grace under fire, that’s my Vicky. But, as I’ve said, I’d have no purpose in that home if it wasn’t for pest eradication. It was time to take out the lights.
“Don’t worry,” I told my spazzing spouse. “I’ll just clip them down at night when the wasps are gone. It’ll be a breeze.” So, that night – or the next – hey, better late than never! – I went out with scissors in hand and clipped the ties that hung them up. I clipped one. I clipped the next. I clipped another. And then, Vicky pointed out the mass of wasps hanging out on the next light and we both ran.
The next day, Vicky bought some of that wasp spray you’ve heard so much about. It must be new… or my mom was fucking with me every time she handed me the stick and told me to go a’hunting.
“You might want to read the can,” Vicky told me.
“Read the - ? What the hell, woman? I’m a man. I don’t read no directions!” I gave the can a shake, held it up to the wasps…
“Overkill” is probably too tame a word for what happened. A thick, foamy stream covered the wasps and the lights and the umbrella and that patio table and the patio and the street and the next house over… but you can be goddamned sure there weren’t any fucking wasps!!!!
The next day, crunchy, dead wasps littered the patio table’s surface.
My work was done.
Now, who’s gonna fix this screen?
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Whatever happened to police brutality?...
Now, before I start ranting, let me say that I know police officers. I have one in my family.
That said… what the fuck? I was at the gym this morning, treading along the treadclimber, watching an episode of COPS. (What do you expect is going to be on Fox at 4:20 am?) The episode is filmed in Las Vegas, apparently, and – one after another – people are being brutalized for… standing… catching things… having their hands in their pockets…
Seriously. One guy caught someone’s bike as it was falling down some stairs. The owner chased it and I thought everything would be fine – then a COP knocked down the guy who caught the bike. “Were you trying to steal it?” he shouted. The victim insisted, “I wasn’t trying to steal anything.” “Not once you saw me,” the COP smirked.
Another COP was told to look for a white guy with red hair. He pulled up to a guy standing next to a store with his hands in his pocket. “What are you doing?” the COP yelled. “I’m sorry? Am I doing something wrong?” the man asked. Then, the COP throttled him, punched him, knocked him to the ground, and put his knee on his neck. The victim kept asking, “What did I do?”
Now, back in my day (granted, this was the 1970’s and 1980’s), footage like that was usually shown in court, not on TV. How did police brutality become entertainment? Are we so afraid of the boogeyman that we’re okay with allowing the police to brutally beat innocent people or have we forgotten that we are innocent until PROVEN guilty?
And normally, I would dismiss this as TV CRAP.
Normally.
But on the next TV over, on a local news channel, the scene of a black guy standing in a parking lot, looking confused, getting jumped on and beaten by a bunch of cops was shown and the “reporter” was stating that he had “resisted arrest”.
I can’t wait for the day when we all really start to resist.
That said… what the fuck? I was at the gym this morning, treading along the treadclimber, watching an episode of COPS. (What do you expect is going to be on Fox at 4:20 am?) The episode is filmed in Las Vegas, apparently, and – one after another – people are being brutalized for… standing… catching things… having their hands in their pockets…
Seriously. One guy caught someone’s bike as it was falling down some stairs. The owner chased it and I thought everything would be fine – then a COP knocked down the guy who caught the bike. “Were you trying to steal it?” he shouted. The victim insisted, “I wasn’t trying to steal anything.” “Not once you saw me,” the COP smirked.
Another COP was told to look for a white guy with red hair. He pulled up to a guy standing next to a store with his hands in his pocket. “What are you doing?” the COP yelled. “I’m sorry? Am I doing something wrong?” the man asked. Then, the COP throttled him, punched him, knocked him to the ground, and put his knee on his neck. The victim kept asking, “What did I do?”
Now, back in my day (granted, this was the 1970’s and 1980’s), footage like that was usually shown in court, not on TV. How did police brutality become entertainment? Are we so afraid of the boogeyman that we’re okay with allowing the police to brutally beat innocent people or have we forgotten that we are innocent until PROVEN guilty?
And normally, I would dismiss this as TV CRAP.
Normally.
But on the next TV over, on a local news channel, the scene of a black guy standing in a parking lot, looking confused, getting jumped on and beaten by a bunch of cops was shown and the “reporter” was stating that he had “resisted arrest”.
I can’t wait for the day when we all really start to resist.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
These are the people insisting that they are protecting our children…
So, let me see if I have this straight.
SCHIP is a program that helps provide healthcare for poor, sick children. An expansion of SCHIP, to heal more poor, sick children was passed by Congress, funding it, partially, with a tax on cigarettes. The idea there is that it would discourage smoking. Fewer smokers. Fewer poor sick children.
A win-win.
But, as we know, Shrub would have no part of that. His veto made his brown and dusty heart just wheeze with glee.
When a 12-year old child spoke up against that – or, I should say, when the Dems allowed a child to speak… what did the Repugs do?
The smeared him. The smeared the child and the Democrats who allowed him to speak.
Because that’s what has become of the Repugs. They’re the party that attacks children and refuses them health care.
Mother fuckers.
SCHIP is a program that helps provide healthcare for poor, sick children. An expansion of SCHIP, to heal more poor, sick children was passed by Congress, funding it, partially, with a tax on cigarettes. The idea there is that it would discourage smoking. Fewer smokers. Fewer poor sick children.
A win-win.
But, as we know, Shrub would have no part of that. His veto made his brown and dusty heart just wheeze with glee.
When a 12-year old child spoke up against that – or, I should say, when the Dems allowed a child to speak… what did the Repugs do?
The smeared him. The smeared the child and the Democrats who allowed him to speak.
Because that’s what has become of the Repugs. They’re the party that attacks children and refuses them health care.
Mother fuckers.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Friday, October 05, 2007
I’m weak…
“I knew I should have bet you big bucks you couldn’t go a whole year without writing a book!”
Wise words. Wise words, indeed. The woman who wrote these words is about to realize just how much she should have bet me.
I’m weak. I’m very, very weak.
Cut off from my many, wonderful nights of binging on booze and smokes, cast into a world of exercise and health, I need something to hold on to. Some vice. Some compulsion.
Okay! So I’ve started another book! I can’t help it! I’m an addict! Yes, I’m going to keep researching the book on food but… I need more!
You see, the class I’m taking just doesn’t require a whole lot from me. I’m doing it in my spare time, hardly attending class, and getting an A, for crying out loud! I need to fill my time.
More importantly, I need something to sink my teeth into… uh oh… words like that usually mean another horror novel. What’s the deal with me? I used to be a comedy writer, folks!
But there’s no fighting it. I’ve got this character trapped in my noggin, this likable, kindly serial killer. And right about now, Jenn is laughing her ass off and kicking herself at the same time.
Wise words. Wise words, indeed. The woman who wrote these words is about to realize just how much she should have bet me.
I’m weak. I’m very, very weak.
Cut off from my many, wonderful nights of binging on booze and smokes, cast into a world of exercise and health, I need something to hold on to. Some vice. Some compulsion.
Okay! So I’ve started another book! I can’t help it! I’m an addict! Yes, I’m going to keep researching the book on food but… I need more!
You see, the class I’m taking just doesn’t require a whole lot from me. I’m doing it in my spare time, hardly attending class, and getting an A, for crying out loud! I need to fill my time.
More importantly, I need something to sink my teeth into… uh oh… words like that usually mean another horror novel. What’s the deal with me? I used to be a comedy writer, folks!
But there’s no fighting it. I’ve got this character trapped in my noggin, this likable, kindly serial killer. And right about now, Jenn is laughing her ass off and kicking herself at the same time.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Gay – Straight – Iraq – Iran…
Senator Craig, the most popular man in a men’s toilet since the guy who invented hockey pucks, is undoubtedly our topic today. But, in fairness and exhaustion, I’ll try to keep this short.
First, he was innocent, not gay, and resigning from the Senate. Then, he was guilty, still not gay, and staying in the Senate. You’d think he’d either make up his mind at some point or realize that guilt is why you resign. Then, he contested the guilty plea… which he gave, was still definitely not gay, and said he’d resign if he judge didn’t overturn the ruling. Today, the judge said the ruling should stand… and, though he is emphatically not gay in any way – doesn’t even like Doris Day movies – he’s still saying he’s not leaving the Senate.
Yeah, we’ll see what your Repugnican cronies and the (non)Religious Right say to that.
But this all sounds very familiar to me and I think it shows the new paradigm for political expediency. Try to follow along:
We went into Iraq because of WMDs that we definitely there. When they weren’t, we stayed because of Sadam, who was definitely the root of all evil. When Sadam died and evil remained (Shrub and Cheney were still in office) we stayed because of the chaos that was there… ignoring the fact that we were causing it… and because of Al-Queda… which was there because of us.
And now, there’s Iran. We’ve been threatening them because of their nuclear program. When that turned out not to exist, the Republicans in the Senate (Uncle Joe Leiberman) introduced legislation to call the Iranian Republican Guard a terrorist organization – despite the fact that, by definition, that’s impossible (they are an army of the state – terrorist organizations are not defined as such, which I guess could be considered a blessing in some circles except…) and the Democrats in the Senate joined in the vote to approve it and hand Shrub the other war he wants.
The idea, I guess, is to have absolutely no dignity, to lie, lie, lie, and keep on lying even after you’ve been proven a liar, with absolutely no regard for the greater good… oh… right… These are REPUBLICANS!!!
This is what they do.
How silly of me.
… oh, and Craig is definitely gay.
First, he was innocent, not gay, and resigning from the Senate. Then, he was guilty, still not gay, and staying in the Senate. You’d think he’d either make up his mind at some point or realize that guilt is why you resign. Then, he contested the guilty plea… which he gave, was still definitely not gay, and said he’d resign if he judge didn’t overturn the ruling. Today, the judge said the ruling should stand… and, though he is emphatically not gay in any way – doesn’t even like Doris Day movies – he’s still saying he’s not leaving the Senate.
Yeah, we’ll see what your Repugnican cronies and the (non)Religious Right say to that.
But this all sounds very familiar to me and I think it shows the new paradigm for political expediency. Try to follow along:
We went into Iraq because of WMDs that we definitely there. When they weren’t, we stayed because of Sadam, who was definitely the root of all evil. When Sadam died and evil remained (Shrub and Cheney were still in office) we stayed because of the chaos that was there… ignoring the fact that we were causing it… and because of Al-Queda… which was there because of us.
And now, there’s Iran. We’ve been threatening them because of their nuclear program. When that turned out not to exist, the Republicans in the Senate (Uncle Joe Leiberman) introduced legislation to call the Iranian Republican Guard a terrorist organization – despite the fact that, by definition, that’s impossible (they are an army of the state – terrorist organizations are not defined as such, which I guess could be considered a blessing in some circles except…) and the Democrats in the Senate joined in the vote to approve it and hand Shrub the other war he wants.
The idea, I guess, is to have absolutely no dignity, to lie, lie, lie, and keep on lying even after you’ve been proven a liar, with absolutely no regard for the greater good… oh… right… These are REPUBLICANS!!!
This is what they do.
How silly of me.
… oh, and Craig is definitely gay.
PB & J…
A few nights ago, Vicky was coming home late and I was stuck for something to eat.
Hmmm… what to eat? The problem is there’s never anything to eat in our house. There’s plenty of food, mind you. There’s just nothing to eat.
Food. (noun) Anything that can be put together to make something to eat.
Something to eat. (better noun) Something you don’t have to put together… cause you eat it.
So, I’m looking in our fridge… there’s some peanut butter… some condiments… some bread… some soy milk… some jelly… a couple of beers… Wait a minute, I thought! I can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich! The thought didn’t occur to me right away, I think, because I’m long past the age of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Honestly, I haven’t had a PB&J in years!
And there I was, in my kitchen, the bread open like two, ripe thighs… wait… it was whole wheat… um, two melanin-blessed or very well tanned thighs… where was I? I opened the jar of jelly and laid down a decadent slathering of the sweet stuff. I opened the jar of organic peanut butter and…
… crap.
Stir. Stir. (The price I pay for healthier food.) Stir. Stir. (But, then again, my arm is getting a workout.) Stir. Stir. (That’s right. Work those guns!) Stir.
… and then I laid a out generous (if tenuously spread, not wanting to rip the bread) helping of mortar.
And slapped them together.
Okay, I gotta tell you, it’s fucking heaven. How is it we forget about these things we loved so much in our youth? My god! Amazing!
And, you know, even as I write this, I’m thinking of making one for dinner tonight.
Maybe even two!
Hmmm… what to eat? The problem is there’s never anything to eat in our house. There’s plenty of food, mind you. There’s just nothing to eat.
Food. (noun) Anything that can be put together to make something to eat.
Something to eat. (better noun) Something you don’t have to put together… cause you eat it.
So, I’m looking in our fridge… there’s some peanut butter… some condiments… some bread… some soy milk… some jelly… a couple of beers… Wait a minute, I thought! I can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich! The thought didn’t occur to me right away, I think, because I’m long past the age of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Honestly, I haven’t had a PB&J in years!
And there I was, in my kitchen, the bread open like two, ripe thighs… wait… it was whole wheat… um, two melanin-blessed or very well tanned thighs… where was I? I opened the jar of jelly and laid down a decadent slathering of the sweet stuff. I opened the jar of organic peanut butter and…
… crap.
Stir. Stir. (The price I pay for healthier food.) Stir. Stir. (But, then again, my arm is getting a workout.) Stir. Stir. (That’s right. Work those guns!) Stir.
… and then I laid a out generous (if tenuously spread, not wanting to rip the bread) helping of mortar.
And slapped them together.
Okay, I gotta tell you, it’s fucking heaven. How is it we forget about these things we loved so much in our youth? My god! Amazing!
And, you know, even as I write this, I’m thinking of making one for dinner tonight.
Maybe even two!
Detour…
This morning, I thought I’d bring you a couple stories, stories of how life changes, of the road along the way, stories of where we’ve gone and how we’ve returned, finding our tracks and following them back to where we started.
But then I decided not to and moved on.
Here’s the thing: Web searches will cause you no end of wasted time. That’s where this all comes from: web searches.
For instance, last night someone read this blog from Chicago (home of the vacuum flapper, pig-oil beer, and the Zeppelin Tube). They found it by running a search for George Sushkoff. I mentioned him a while back as my trusty sidekick in elementary school and my first, best friend.
And I thought about how funny it is that someone looking for George would find out, in the most random way, that he was once known as “Fart Boy”.
(Yes, I was “Fart Man”.)
(I can see you’re not surprised.)
So, I followed this person’s search and was, myself, surprised to find much more than just that. You know, useful information.
What I found was how very different George and I ended up in life. I found a picture of him, with his bride, Rosey.
Wait a minute…
Yes, Rosey. Okay, so maybe not so different. I was once married to someone with a very similar name. But George’s Rose is thin – and the differences do not end there. While he’s made his life about athletic competition; mine has been about performance and reflection. And, though the information dried up shortly after that, I’m sure our lives ended up very different in many ways. It’s clear we took different roads. After all, he lives on an entirely different coast! But I remember, even as children, how different we were. He would clip his nails, always brush, floss, and do all of the things a person is supposed to do. Me? Not quite so much. I ended up a smoker and put on a lot of weight. I drank a lot and went from job to job. Now, sure, I’m looking after my health better now than I used to and have even been known to floss on occasion but you can see how someone who makes a habit of doing things the way they are supposed to be done probably ends up with a very different life from someone like… me.
I would like to think George finished college, for instance. I’m sure he did. I’m sure he has a successful career and makes a lot of money. I would like to think that he’s happily married and he accepts things as they are and doesn’t create problems for himself thinking about the way they “should be”.
But that reminds me of something else I knew about George and that is that he could be very harsh and judgmental. One of the things a reflective life has taught me, I like to think, is a little tolerance and understanding. But I’m hoping George has the benefit of that as well.
I wish nothing but good things for George.
… because I still have all of my hair.
Another search I did yesterday, brought me information about David Graham, also known as David Osborne. (We artistic types are pains in the ass.) Turns out he uses either one, or so it seems, with capricious glee.
When David acted in my first play, Everything Changes, he told me how he was envious of me and how he wished he could have the discipline (I prefer to think of it as psychosis) to write a play. Well, it turns out he did and it was well received up in Los Angeles. If David and I were still in touch I would send a cheerful “Bravo”! But… we’re not.
And that’s probably a good thing, too. After all, David was always far more “right wing” than I… hell, Hillary is too! He’s probably far more supportive of the current war than I could ever be, for instance.
Here’s an example of what I mean by how he was more “right wing”. When David and I were once debating worker’s rights, he once asked me, “Don’t employers have the right to hire and fire who they wish and pay what they wish?” I didn’t have the proper response back then. I hadn’t thought about it enough back then. But I had a sense he was wrong. What I should have said was, “Absolutely not! Workers have a right to take part in any endeavor in which they have contributed. By hiring people to help their business, employers make an unspoken agreement to allow their employees to play a part in how the company is run.”
As I say, we are a bit different.
So, this morning, I’m thinking about George and David and how very different my life has turned out from theirs and because of them, and visa versa. But I am not unsatisfied by where I’m at. Finding Success has given me a great deal more perspective that I once had, allowing me to be able to look over there and, like travelers seeing footprints or seeing a distant sail, hope that person once here but long since on a very different road finds beneficial conditions and a safe journey.
But I do wish I could be there when word of “Fart Boy” gets back to George…
But then I decided not to and moved on.
Here’s the thing: Web searches will cause you no end of wasted time. That’s where this all comes from: web searches.
For instance, last night someone read this blog from Chicago (home of the vacuum flapper, pig-oil beer, and the Zeppelin Tube). They found it by running a search for George Sushkoff. I mentioned him a while back as my trusty sidekick in elementary school and my first, best friend.
And I thought about how funny it is that someone looking for George would find out, in the most random way, that he was once known as “Fart Boy”.
(Yes, I was “Fart Man”.)
(I can see you’re not surprised.)
So, I followed this person’s search and was, myself, surprised to find much more than just that. You know, useful information.
What I found was how very different George and I ended up in life. I found a picture of him, with his bride, Rosey.
Wait a minute…
Yes, Rosey. Okay, so maybe not so different. I was once married to someone with a very similar name. But George’s Rose is thin – and the differences do not end there. While he’s made his life about athletic competition; mine has been about performance and reflection. And, though the information dried up shortly after that, I’m sure our lives ended up very different in many ways. It’s clear we took different roads. After all, he lives on an entirely different coast! But I remember, even as children, how different we were. He would clip his nails, always brush, floss, and do all of the things a person is supposed to do. Me? Not quite so much. I ended up a smoker and put on a lot of weight. I drank a lot and went from job to job. Now, sure, I’m looking after my health better now than I used to and have even been known to floss on occasion but you can see how someone who makes a habit of doing things the way they are supposed to be done probably ends up with a very different life from someone like… me.
I would like to think George finished college, for instance. I’m sure he did. I’m sure he has a successful career and makes a lot of money. I would like to think that he’s happily married and he accepts things as they are and doesn’t create problems for himself thinking about the way they “should be”.
But that reminds me of something else I knew about George and that is that he could be very harsh and judgmental. One of the things a reflective life has taught me, I like to think, is a little tolerance and understanding. But I’m hoping George has the benefit of that as well.
I wish nothing but good things for George.
… because I still have all of my hair.
Another search I did yesterday, brought me information about David Graham, also known as David Osborne. (We artistic types are pains in the ass.) Turns out he uses either one, or so it seems, with capricious glee.
When David acted in my first play, Everything Changes, he told me how he was envious of me and how he wished he could have the discipline (I prefer to think of it as psychosis) to write a play. Well, it turns out he did and it was well received up in Los Angeles. If David and I were still in touch I would send a cheerful “Bravo”! But… we’re not.
And that’s probably a good thing, too. After all, David was always far more “right wing” than I… hell, Hillary is too! He’s probably far more supportive of the current war than I could ever be, for instance.
Here’s an example of what I mean by how he was more “right wing”. When David and I were once debating worker’s rights, he once asked me, “Don’t employers have the right to hire and fire who they wish and pay what they wish?” I didn’t have the proper response back then. I hadn’t thought about it enough back then. But I had a sense he was wrong. What I should have said was, “Absolutely not! Workers have a right to take part in any endeavor in which they have contributed. By hiring people to help their business, employers make an unspoken agreement to allow their employees to play a part in how the company is run.”
As I say, we are a bit different.
So, this morning, I’m thinking about George and David and how very different my life has turned out from theirs and because of them, and visa versa. But I am not unsatisfied by where I’m at. Finding Success has given me a great deal more perspective that I once had, allowing me to be able to look over there and, like travelers seeing footprints or seeing a distant sail, hope that person once here but long since on a very different road finds beneficial conditions and a safe journey.
But I do wish I could be there when word of “Fart Boy” gets back to George…
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
As Anal As It Gets...
“How can you be so meticulous about that and such a pig in real life?”
Vicky has said that to me more than once.
I have a confession. I eat in order.
Yes. You heard me.
I eat in order.
Salad – Veggie – Main Course – Dessert… unless I’m allowed to start with dessert, then I go backwards… sometimes…
So, I’m eating some trial mix with lunch, some really good, healthy, Bear Naked trail mix.
Cashews, Walnuts, Sunflower Seeds, Almonds, Pumpkin Seeds, Raisins, Cranberries, and Dark Chocolate Chips.
… what a nightmare.
The reason I can’t eat them all at once is not a Jack Nicholson, As Good As It Gets, moment. I don’t have to wash my hands 14 times after, seven on one side and seven on the other, with a new bar of soap each time, turning the light on and off as I go. I am not OCD.
The thing is, I don’t want to ruin my flavors. I don’t know when this started. Maybe it’s a throwback from childhood when 1) my mom cooked so poorly that it was best to mix everything together in the hopes it balanced out, or 2) you had to eat fast lest my brother take it from you. I don’t know. But there I am with my trail mix.
The trick here is that I want those dark chocolate chips.
But I don’t want to ruin them. I’m not a big fan of Almonds or Cashews (um, raw, by the way and unsalted… I’m trying to be healthy) or Sunflower Seeds; I don’t want to mix my perfectly good dark chocolate with that mess. So, I start by picking out the Cashews and Almonds. Easy enough. I then move on to the seeds group – but the Walnuts are in the way. Now, I love Walnuts so I gobble those down, too. Now, to get the seeds, it helps if they stick to something; they’re so small. Raisins and Cranberries help out with this.
And that leaves me with the dark chocolate. The wonderful dark chocolate.
There’s like four chips in there.
Why did I get trail mix, anyway?
Vicky has said that to me more than once.
I have a confession. I eat in order.
Yes. You heard me.
I eat in order.
Salad – Veggie – Main Course – Dessert… unless I’m allowed to start with dessert, then I go backwards… sometimes…
So, I’m eating some trial mix with lunch, some really good, healthy, Bear Naked trail mix.
Cashews, Walnuts, Sunflower Seeds, Almonds, Pumpkin Seeds, Raisins, Cranberries, and Dark Chocolate Chips.
… what a nightmare.
The reason I can’t eat them all at once is not a Jack Nicholson, As Good As It Gets, moment. I don’t have to wash my hands 14 times after, seven on one side and seven on the other, with a new bar of soap each time, turning the light on and off as I go. I am not OCD.
The thing is, I don’t want to ruin my flavors. I don’t know when this started. Maybe it’s a throwback from childhood when 1) my mom cooked so poorly that it was best to mix everything together in the hopes it balanced out, or 2) you had to eat fast lest my brother take it from you. I don’t know. But there I am with my trail mix.
The trick here is that I want those dark chocolate chips.
But I don’t want to ruin them. I’m not a big fan of Almonds or Cashews (um, raw, by the way and unsalted… I’m trying to be healthy) or Sunflower Seeds; I don’t want to mix my perfectly good dark chocolate with that mess. So, I start by picking out the Cashews and Almonds. Easy enough. I then move on to the seeds group – but the Walnuts are in the way. Now, I love Walnuts so I gobble those down, too. Now, to get the seeds, it helps if they stick to something; they’re so small. Raisins and Cranberries help out with this.
And that leaves me with the dark chocolate. The wonderful dark chocolate.
There’s like four chips in there.
Why did I get trail mix, anyway?
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Woke up laughing…
It’s possibly the second best way to wake up. (I don’t know why I’m being so coy as to the best way, considering what a great deal of this email is about.) I woke up laughing so hard this morning, I actually snorted!
I had some strange dreams. I’ll tell you the last one first but the reason I was laughing really had nothing to do with it. The snort came as a result of remembering that the pickle jar was completely empty!
The last dream I had took place in a small town with winding streets. I think it was Whistler, Canada, which is laid out much like the streets of a theme park. I went there many years ago with someone else, which is how I know it. This time, I was alone. I was looking in the shop windows, very depressed. Finally, I walked into an art shop and, amidst all the paintings and brushes, I leaned into one wall with one leg splayed out, both arms pressed against the wall, and my face planted firmly against it, as if I were some kind of modern exhibit.
I stayed like that for several minutes.
Finally, with the eyes of the young shopkeeper on me, I stepped back, looked at her, and said, “Sorry, I was just trying something.”
“Sure,” she replied. Then, she asked, “Life as art?”
I was walking to the exit. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“Life as art. You make yourself the display. I’ve seen it before. In Prague. But they were much better.”
“Okay,” I replied, stepping out.
“Not that you weren’t good,” she called out. “They were just more practiced.”
I turned a corner and saw her through a window.
She yelled, “I’m sure you could be very good as well, in time.”
So, if the whole writing thing doesn’t work out and I decide never to go back to acting… I’m just saying…
But the one before that really had me chuckling. The humor revolved around a certain bodily fluid, so I’ll thank you to stop reading now if you are easily offended by the flagrant waste of reproductive juices. Now, I could just call it sperm or I could try to be cute and use any of the euphemisms that fly about – man milk, baby gravy, what have you – but let’s just keep it simple and call it jizz…
The dream didn’t start here but I can remember it from the point where a gorilla was masturbating furiously with the ashes of the recently dead. I remember thinking, as a voiceover, “Gorillas obvious don’t know what to do with someone’s ashes.”
What?
I just figured you’d know it would be weird.
Next thing I knew, the gorilla – who was now almost human, say… Jim Belushi – was running through the streets of a large city, carrying a pickle jar as if it was holding something very important. He ran right up to a pay phone where TV’s David Cross was talking on the phone.
“Listen,” Jim tells him. “I need a favor.”
“Sure,” David says. “Give me a minute.” He’s trying to finish his phone call.
Jim is holding, nay clutching, the pickle jar. “I need you to take care of this for me. Could you?”
“Sure,” David tells him.
Now, the camera goes back to Jim, and you can’t help noticed gobs of jizz running down the sides of the jar. His hands are coated in the stuff. “Could you put it in the fridge? Somewhere it won’t go bad.”
“Sure,” David says. Then, to the phone, he says, “Yes, Grandma. Yes, I know. I’ll get that. Yes.” He turns back to Jim and says, “Gram Gram wants some icing for her cinnamon rolls. Do you know where I can get some?”
By now, jizz is dripping onto Jim’s shoes. “No. No, I don’t.”
Jim puts down the pickle jar for David and runs away.
Soon, Henrietta Hippo approaches. (That’s right, bitchez. New Zoo Revue!) She is crying.
“What is it, Henrietta?” David asks her.
“It’s my husband,” Henrietta says. “I don’t think he loves me any more.”
“How can you say that?” David asks.
A close up of Henrietta shows jizz running down her face. “I think he just wants me for the sex.”
“That’s crazy,” David assures her.
But her face is smeared with jizz, obscene amounts, her hair is plastered down like some Japanese fetish video. “Are you sure?” she asks.
“Yes, Gram Gram,” David says in the phone. He turns to Henrietta. “Do you have anything to write with?”
“Of course,” she tells him. Checking her pockets, jizz runs out of all of them. She opens her coin purse, which she removes from her jizz-drenched coat, and pours out a quart of the stuff. “I was sure I had something,” she says. Then, she opens her bag, which is filled with papers and magazines… and jizz. The papers are swimming in jizz. They slosh around like noodles in soup. Then, she reaches into a side pocket and pulls out a drenched post-it pad. This is followed by a pen. The ink is white.
I love jokes that don’t know when to stop. Mind you, I will NEVER try to analyze that but, believe me, it had me laughing for most of the morning.
I had some strange dreams. I’ll tell you the last one first but the reason I was laughing really had nothing to do with it. The snort came as a result of remembering that the pickle jar was completely empty!
The last dream I had took place in a small town with winding streets. I think it was Whistler, Canada, which is laid out much like the streets of a theme park. I went there many years ago with someone else, which is how I know it. This time, I was alone. I was looking in the shop windows, very depressed. Finally, I walked into an art shop and, amidst all the paintings and brushes, I leaned into one wall with one leg splayed out, both arms pressed against the wall, and my face planted firmly against it, as if I were some kind of modern exhibit.
I stayed like that for several minutes.
Finally, with the eyes of the young shopkeeper on me, I stepped back, looked at her, and said, “Sorry, I was just trying something.”
“Sure,” she replied. Then, she asked, “Life as art?”
I was walking to the exit. “Excuse me?” I asked.
“Life as art. You make yourself the display. I’ve seen it before. In Prague. But they were much better.”
“Okay,” I replied, stepping out.
“Not that you weren’t good,” she called out. “They were just more practiced.”
I turned a corner and saw her through a window.
She yelled, “I’m sure you could be very good as well, in time.”
So, if the whole writing thing doesn’t work out and I decide never to go back to acting… I’m just saying…
But the one before that really had me chuckling. The humor revolved around a certain bodily fluid, so I’ll thank you to stop reading now if you are easily offended by the flagrant waste of reproductive juices. Now, I could just call it sperm or I could try to be cute and use any of the euphemisms that fly about – man milk, baby gravy, what have you – but let’s just keep it simple and call it jizz…
The dream didn’t start here but I can remember it from the point where a gorilla was masturbating furiously with the ashes of the recently dead. I remember thinking, as a voiceover, “Gorillas obvious don’t know what to do with someone’s ashes.”
What?
I just figured you’d know it would be weird.
Next thing I knew, the gorilla – who was now almost human, say… Jim Belushi – was running through the streets of a large city, carrying a pickle jar as if it was holding something very important. He ran right up to a pay phone where TV’s David Cross was talking on the phone.
“Listen,” Jim tells him. “I need a favor.”
“Sure,” David says. “Give me a minute.” He’s trying to finish his phone call.
Jim is holding, nay clutching, the pickle jar. “I need you to take care of this for me. Could you?”
“Sure,” David tells him.
Now, the camera goes back to Jim, and you can’t help noticed gobs of jizz running down the sides of the jar. His hands are coated in the stuff. “Could you put it in the fridge? Somewhere it won’t go bad.”
“Sure,” David says. Then, to the phone, he says, “Yes, Grandma. Yes, I know. I’ll get that. Yes.” He turns back to Jim and says, “Gram Gram wants some icing for her cinnamon rolls. Do you know where I can get some?”
By now, jizz is dripping onto Jim’s shoes. “No. No, I don’t.”
Jim puts down the pickle jar for David and runs away.
Soon, Henrietta Hippo approaches. (That’s right, bitchez. New Zoo Revue!) She is crying.
“What is it, Henrietta?” David asks her.
“It’s my husband,” Henrietta says. “I don’t think he loves me any more.”
“How can you say that?” David asks.
A close up of Henrietta shows jizz running down her face. “I think he just wants me for the sex.”
“That’s crazy,” David assures her.
But her face is smeared with jizz, obscene amounts, her hair is plastered down like some Japanese fetish video. “Are you sure?” she asks.
“Yes, Gram Gram,” David says in the phone. He turns to Henrietta. “Do you have anything to write with?”
“Of course,” she tells him. Checking her pockets, jizz runs out of all of them. She opens her coin purse, which she removes from her jizz-drenched coat, and pours out a quart of the stuff. “I was sure I had something,” she says. Then, she opens her bag, which is filled with papers and magazines… and jizz. The papers are swimming in jizz. They slosh around like noodles in soup. Then, she reaches into a side pocket and pulls out a drenched post-it pad. This is followed by a pen. The ink is white.
I love jokes that don’t know when to stop. Mind you, I will NEVER try to analyze that but, believe me, it had me laughing for most of the morning.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
The new book…?
“Wait a minute! Didn’t he say he wasn’t going to write another book for a year? A year?!”
… I can hear you saying it. I can feel the spittle of your abnegation striking me like sterile raindrops… but you can tell from that last sentence that I’d better start soon or else my blog entries will need their own thesaurus!
But before we get into the new books, an update…
School. What can I say? This course I’m taking is a bore! A bore! I’ve been given an A- on each of the papers due, and I’m only going to half the classes. I think I might have some free time.
Submissions. Originally, the intent behind taking some time off was also to focus on submissions. Well, there have been some changes there. Though Vicky had been handling all of my submissions, she’s just too busy with her own shit, bottom line. So, we’re picking me up a printer and I’m going to start handling some as well. She’ll be doing just as much as before, mind you. But, with me in the mix, we should be able to crank out a few more. And we need to! We’re averaging one submission every two weeks. We should be doing a lot more if we want to find a publisher.
So, that covers all of my “after-hours” activities, not including World of Warcraft. The question still remains, “What am I going to do at work?” I mean, sure, things have picked up. I’m an Assistant Marketing Manager with a lot more duties… but writing makes me happy. And I’ve been hit with an idea that is so different, yet so compelling… ah, but that would be telling.
In the most general sense, the book will be about food. That’s all I can tell you for now. But it will cover those old, iconic foods we enjoyed so much when we were younger. (For those of you still young, fuck off.) I sat down today and thought of five of these foods. They are:
Kraft Mac & Cheese Dinner “Blue Box”
Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pie
Campbell’s Tomato Soup
Heinz Ketchup
Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes
But there are bound to be others, right? You’ve probably thought of some yourself. Don’t keep them to yourself! Write them down! Put them in the comments field!
The research phase of this book, by the way, could take months. That’s how I plan to keep my “not this year” promise, by starting the writing next year. It’s a shitty, lawyer way of keeping a promise but, admit it, you never wanted me to wait, did you?
… I can hear you saying it. I can feel the spittle of your abnegation striking me like sterile raindrops… but you can tell from that last sentence that I’d better start soon or else my blog entries will need their own thesaurus!
But before we get into the new books, an update…
School. What can I say? This course I’m taking is a bore! A bore! I’ve been given an A- on each of the papers due, and I’m only going to half the classes. I think I might have some free time.
Submissions. Originally, the intent behind taking some time off was also to focus on submissions. Well, there have been some changes there. Though Vicky had been handling all of my submissions, she’s just too busy with her own shit, bottom line. So, we’re picking me up a printer and I’m going to start handling some as well. She’ll be doing just as much as before, mind you. But, with me in the mix, we should be able to crank out a few more. And we need to! We’re averaging one submission every two weeks. We should be doing a lot more if we want to find a publisher.
So, that covers all of my “after-hours” activities, not including World of Warcraft. The question still remains, “What am I going to do at work?” I mean, sure, things have picked up. I’m an Assistant Marketing Manager with a lot more duties… but writing makes me happy. And I’ve been hit with an idea that is so different, yet so compelling… ah, but that would be telling.
In the most general sense, the book will be about food. That’s all I can tell you for now. But it will cover those old, iconic foods we enjoyed so much when we were younger. (For those of you still young, fuck off.) I sat down today and thought of five of these foods. They are:
Kraft Mac & Cheese Dinner “Blue Box”
Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pie
Campbell’s Tomato Soup
Heinz Ketchup
Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes
But there are bound to be others, right? You’ve probably thought of some yourself. Don’t keep them to yourself! Write them down! Put them in the comments field!
The research phase of this book, by the way, could take months. That’s how I plan to keep my “not this year” promise, by starting the writing next year. It’s a shitty, lawyer way of keeping a promise but, admit it, you never wanted me to wait, did you?
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
How new is the war in Iraq?...
Some may say it’s been going on for more than the few, costly years by which we mark it. The thousands of Americans dead and the tens of thousands wounded, and the countless Iraqis hurt, maimed, or killed might not know how long this has gone on.
But history gives us some insight.
I saw a picture this morning from over a hundred years ago. It was a picture of people defending their land against Americans. These people were Filipino and they were defending the Philippines again American invasion in 1899. The war lasted 14 years and cost thousands of American lives. Actually, it cost nearly as many as we’ve already lost in Iraq in a far shorter time. Over 500,000 Filipinos died. There were many atrocities committed then, just as there are now.
I say that the war in Iraq has lasted far longer than we know because, as you can see, the United States hasn’t always been the good guy. We have often invaded small countries, trying to take what does not belong to us, in the Philippines, in Vietnam, in Korea, in Iraq. Once it was territory. Then, it was oil. These wars aren’t started to “bring democracy”; the Philippine-American war started after the Spanish-American War and that small nation remains unstable to this day.
But just as the warmongers have always been with us, so have those who have spoken out for peace. In 1899, those opposed to the subjugation of the Philippines included Mark Twain, William Jennings Bryan, and Andrew Carnegie, just as many famous names along with those less famous speak out today.
One day, maybe someone will listen.
But history gives us some insight.
I saw a picture this morning from over a hundred years ago. It was a picture of people defending their land against Americans. These people were Filipino and they were defending the Philippines again American invasion in 1899. The war lasted 14 years and cost thousands of American lives. Actually, it cost nearly as many as we’ve already lost in Iraq in a far shorter time. Over 500,000 Filipinos died. There were many atrocities committed then, just as there are now.
I say that the war in Iraq has lasted far longer than we know because, as you can see, the United States hasn’t always been the good guy. We have often invaded small countries, trying to take what does not belong to us, in the Philippines, in Vietnam, in Korea, in Iraq. Once it was territory. Then, it was oil. These wars aren’t started to “bring democracy”; the Philippine-American war started after the Spanish-American War and that small nation remains unstable to this day.
But just as the warmongers have always been with us, so have those who have spoken out for peace. In 1899, those opposed to the subjugation of the Philippines included Mark Twain, William Jennings Bryan, and Andrew Carnegie, just as many famous names along with those less famous speak out today.
One day, maybe someone will listen.
Second Anniversary Brings Second Marriage Weirdness…
“I would never want to be married a third time.” I’ve heard these words before and I think I finally get it. I’ve only been married twice and the weirdness involved would probably be far worse the third time around.
“I wish I’d only married you,” I said to Vicky as we left the Orange County Mining Company last night, and I meant that on several levels. Yes, it was our anniversary last night. Year Two.
I’d had a bad night the night before – insomnia, general nuttiness, the usual – so I wasn’t feeling my best. On top of that, the flowers I’d had delivered to Vicky came late and… well, they were the wrong flowers! Ugh! When Vicky asked me what I wanted to do for dinner, “Do you want to go out or would you like me to cook,” eventually I just said, “You and I are going out. No questions!”
We decided to hit Trattoria Barolo, our favorite, little Italian place. The food is great. The service is nice.
… and they were closed.
“Hey,” a guy called over to us as we tried to walk in, “we’re closed.” Whoops.
But how were we to know they’d be closed on Monday? Seriously?
So, where would we go? I told Vicky we could eat anywhere, as long as I was with her. That’s fine on a greeting card but it got us no closer to dinner. We eventually opted on the Mining Company, which was out in a part of Orange County we normally don’t hit because it’s near where Rosa used to live. I’d always stayed away to limit the chance of running into her. But she’s long gone now – so we went.
Did I say she was long gone? Not actually. She was all over the place and we overlooked the neighborhood she and I once lived in. Don’t get the wrong idea. It didn’t make me miss her; it was just weird. Like eating at a cemetery. Sure, the setting is quiet and green but you’re in a fucking cemetery. In my mind’s eye, I couldn’t help seeing images of the times she and I had been eating at one of those tables, or taking our evening walks on the streets below. It was like our ghosts were all around me.
And that’s what they were, too. Ghosts. Because when you remarry – or when I did, at least – it was like my old life had ended, as if those 15 years didn’t belong to me. As if those people who were once Ken & Rosa were now specters haunting the places where they had been.
I told Vicky that I wish I’d only married her because, then, there’d be just one Ken. I wouldn’t have been cut in half by a divorce. But, also, I wish I’d shared those younger years with her instead of someone who didn’t appreciate me. I wish I had those memories, instead of those spooks.
As we left, I was glad to return to the neighborhood where I share my life with Vicky. But, she said, “So, do you want to see your old house?”
I can’t begin to tell you what that meant to me. In fact, my head did such a spin I’m sure I wiped out several thousand brain cells. “Sure,” I said, because that wasn’t just the house I shared with Rosa. It was my house. I had bought it. I had worked on it. All Rosa did was steal it away from me. I don’t know if Vicky realized this or if she was just making a grand gesture but she turned down Esplanade as if she wasn’t kidding and, before I knew it, there we were.
Not a lot had changed. It still looked a bit dumpy – but that was okay. I liked it that way. I’d bought it that way. It was now probably WAY out of my price range but it was nice to know I’d once owned it. And it was nice to be there with Vicky. That made it a bit less weird.
Love ya, Vic.
“I wish I’d only married you,” I said to Vicky as we left the Orange County Mining Company last night, and I meant that on several levels. Yes, it was our anniversary last night. Year Two.
I’d had a bad night the night before – insomnia, general nuttiness, the usual – so I wasn’t feeling my best. On top of that, the flowers I’d had delivered to Vicky came late and… well, they were the wrong flowers! Ugh! When Vicky asked me what I wanted to do for dinner, “Do you want to go out or would you like me to cook,” eventually I just said, “You and I are going out. No questions!”
We decided to hit Trattoria Barolo, our favorite, little Italian place. The food is great. The service is nice.
… and they were closed.
“Hey,” a guy called over to us as we tried to walk in, “we’re closed.” Whoops.
But how were we to know they’d be closed on Monday? Seriously?
So, where would we go? I told Vicky we could eat anywhere, as long as I was with her. That’s fine on a greeting card but it got us no closer to dinner. We eventually opted on the Mining Company, which was out in a part of Orange County we normally don’t hit because it’s near where Rosa used to live. I’d always stayed away to limit the chance of running into her. But she’s long gone now – so we went.
Did I say she was long gone? Not actually. She was all over the place and we overlooked the neighborhood she and I once lived in. Don’t get the wrong idea. It didn’t make me miss her; it was just weird. Like eating at a cemetery. Sure, the setting is quiet and green but you’re in a fucking cemetery. In my mind’s eye, I couldn’t help seeing images of the times she and I had been eating at one of those tables, or taking our evening walks on the streets below. It was like our ghosts were all around me.
And that’s what they were, too. Ghosts. Because when you remarry – or when I did, at least – it was like my old life had ended, as if those 15 years didn’t belong to me. As if those people who were once Ken & Rosa were now specters haunting the places where they had been.
I told Vicky that I wish I’d only married her because, then, there’d be just one Ken. I wouldn’t have been cut in half by a divorce. But, also, I wish I’d shared those younger years with her instead of someone who didn’t appreciate me. I wish I had those memories, instead of those spooks.
As we left, I was glad to return to the neighborhood where I share my life with Vicky. But, she said, “So, do you want to see your old house?”
I can’t begin to tell you what that meant to me. In fact, my head did such a spin I’m sure I wiped out several thousand brain cells. “Sure,” I said, because that wasn’t just the house I shared with Rosa. It was my house. I had bought it. I had worked on it. All Rosa did was steal it away from me. I don’t know if Vicky realized this or if she was just making a grand gesture but she turned down Esplanade as if she wasn’t kidding and, before I knew it, there we were.
Not a lot had changed. It still looked a bit dumpy – but that was okay. I liked it that way. I’d bought it that way. It was now probably WAY out of my price range but it was nice to know I’d once owned it. And it was nice to be there with Vicky. That made it a bit less weird.
Love ya, Vic.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Insomni… um…
Once again, I’m awake… and I’d rather not be…
Sleep and I aren’t the best of friends.
Sleep and I have issues.
Like, for instance, have you ever noticed that sleep will sometimes say it’s going out to the store to pick up a snack and it takes over an hour and it won’t answer its cell and then it comes back with a small bag of chips, like the kind they sell at the gas station, and you say, “So, Sleep, what took you so long?” And Sleep says, “What do you mean? I was just, ah, going to the store. Ah, that’s it. The store.” And you say, “Then how come you didn’t get any salsa? How come you didn’t pick up any dip?” And Sleep says, “Well, you know, I could find any.” And you say, “At the store?” And Sleep says, “Yes, at the store.” And you say, “So, you’re telling me you were at the store for an hour and you couldn’t find salsa? At the store?” And Sleep says, “Well, there was traffic.” “Traffic,” you shout. “You were only supposed to go two blocks!” And Sleep says, “Yeah, well, I got lost.” And you shout, “My ass! And what’s that smell on you, anyway?! I’ll tell you what it is! It’s jizz, bitch! You’ve been at that club downtown where all the men go and…”
… anyway, I’m awake again…
Am I late to this party?...
So, it's September 23rd... the day before our anniversary...
Vicky and I were out running errands today, which is what old, married couples do to celebrate - anyway, I could help but notice...
Christmas Cards beside Halloween decorations at Target.
Christmas wrapping paper next to Halloween costumes at Costco.
... is this what has become of the holiday seasons? They start in September now???
I know I shouldn't be shocked. It's just so very sad...
Vicky and I were out running errands today, which is what old, married couples do to celebrate - anyway, I could help but notice...
Christmas Cards beside Halloween decorations at Target.
Christmas wrapping paper next to Halloween costumes at Costco.
... is this what has become of the holiday seasons? They start in September now???
I know I shouldn't be shocked. It's just so very sad...
Saturday, September 22, 2007
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