Tall Drink of Monster

Groggy

2010-07-28T10:02:00.001-06:00

If breakfast is "the most important meal of the day," then why is it always the least expensive?

Kanuk Confusion

2010-03-04T12:26:00.004-07:00

Finally got over the ill juju techno trips up in heyah and got myself a laptop with minimal problems... excepting that it's from Canada. Toshiba, 2009, and such... but... from Canada. You'd think that would mean perhaps simpler, perhaps similar -- but NO.

The keyboard is set up differently -- I suppose if'n I wanted to type all French-like. But sarcasm, snobbery and superb cooking is as close to French as I get. Yet... this keyboard is somewhat smaller and has keys that I cannot understand nor control. Characters, accents, HTML weirdness. Where the return key should be is something called: \
Now, I can use a forward slash, but there are at least two keys for forward slashes on this board. Additionally, if I slip while clicking along, all of the sudden I'm writing in some kind of hyroglyphics. Bizarre. And then there's the key where the question mark should be. Well, the question mark is there, but this is the "Eh?" key. How am I supposed to end my serious questions about life with this Eh? I'm so grateful to have connectivity again, even if my homepages and searches all start in Canada, but why must the the keyboard be so bloody different Eh? And I've nothing against the Queen's english, but really: Queen of which country Eh?

So, may I ask a favour Eh? Does anyone know about converting a foreign keyboard into something I can utilize for writing in shoddy, urban American "English" Eh?

Aw, forget it, Eh? Take off Eh?

I wanted to write something about U.S.'s outstanding hockey performance in the 2010 Winter Olympics, but pressing F7 on the keyboard doesn't give me a spellcheck -- it's a reality check shortcut. It deletes all I was thinking and interjects objectivity that is truly foreign to me.

\Someone press F7 on my life and eliminate this kanuk confusion Eh?

Clothing Carnage

2010-02-23T10:35:00.015-07:00

Well, I got my baby back this week. There's a nice feeling. To see her, not to ride her. Can't ride her yet. Tried to start her the morning after her return: click-click dead. And to the list of 33 repaired items on her, we add "battery." No biggie, considering all she's been through. That'd be like me complaining that bright lights still hurt my eyes, when 11 months ago I didn't have the wherewithall to distinguish the armoir from the bathroom.

Oh, anyone wanna buy a bedroom set?

So, there she sits in the garage. Quiet and cold.

Cold, but purty.

And this morning it occurred to me that I need a bit more than a battery to get back in the wind. Boots: thrashed. Gloves: trashed. Jacket: oh... the jacket. Apparently the kind EMTs that responded to a 911 call of "dead motorcyclist" felt it necessary to cut my jacket off of me. HARSH. (Well... not to complain too much... it may have been necessary. I don't know. I wasn't exactly "present.")

So: I have a shopping trip to look forward to. Umm... after I get a job.

Oh, anyone wanna hire a marketing writer?

Perhaps I can get by with the existing gear: just tear the leather from the steel of the boots, duct tape the cuffs of the gauntlet gloves, staple or sew the jacket back together, and there we have it: Frankenbiker.

On the bright side, I don't need to buy a new helmet...

Effed Beyond Belief

2009-06-15T20:51:00.003-06:00

That which is easy to say is so often quite difficult to perform.

I've been gone a long time.

I'm coming back.

I don't know what to say.

I bashed my head in on the asphalt at 45 mph. I'm left here for some reason.

Friends, I'm afraid I lost my sense of humor. This sitch taint funny. I could use some prodding. (Don't go gay with that last comment.)

Share My Pain

2009-01-22T09:31:00.004-07:00

With a 72-hour turn on an out of state photography job and a myriad of other assignments to accomplish simultaneously, I decided to outsource the commercial photography to a local contractor. Fortunately, on my last trip to Backwater, KS, I grabbed a phone book -- approximately half the size of a Ludlum novel and twice as interesting. Time ticking deafeningly away, I threw open the yellow pages to find only two commercial photographers in the greater Backwater area: Maynard's Photography and Melvin's Photography. I contacted them alphabetically.

"Hello," came the woman's raspy voice.

"Oh, um... Sorry... I thought I was calling a place of business."

"Who you tryin' to reach?"

"Maynard's Photography?"

"Yep. You found it."

"OK... Well, I need a commercial photograph taken at 1412 Main--"

"Hold on," she sighed, "I'll git him for ya."

Without cupping a hand over the receiver she rattled, "Mayn! Phone!" From rooms away I could hear the echo of the sweet song of lifelong marital bliss, "Well, who is it woman?"

"I don't know. Someone about a photo." He offered muffled retort, then I heard her reply, "Well, what you want me to tell him?" She sighed back into my ear, "Hold on, mister. He's coming."

I kid you not when I tell you I held on for five minutes. Five minutes in which I could have accomplished two other tasks. Five minutes in which I could have responded to critical emails. Five minutes in which I could have used another phone to call the other photographer. Five minutes which swirled to a disturbing end with the sound of a flushing toilet in the receiver. "What can I do you for," was his warm, heartland greeting.

I began giving him specifics of the job, until he interrupted, "Hold on there, young fella. Let's back up a bit. Where-all you want?"

"Where what?"

"Where-all you want to shoot?"

"Oh. Backwater."

"Backwater?! Why, that's a good 50 miles from here. I'm in Hutchins."

"You're in their phone book."

"Hm. Not sure how that happened."

"Can you make the trip," I asked.

"Well... I s'pose so. What for?"

"What-- for the job. The job, man. Do you want the job?"

"I dunno. What for?"

I was lost. Fast money seemed enough of a motivator to me. "What do you mean what for?"

"What thing you wantin' me to go to Backwater for?"

"A high school. I need a photo of Backwater High School."

"For what?"

I was beginning to lose my patience. This was a competitive bid job for a rather large high school renovation, and I didn't want Maynard privy to too much information. "That's not important."

"Well, maybe if you'd tell me more about it I'd have a better understanding of what-all you need."

"I need you to shoot primarily the front of the school, but catch it at an angle from southwest to northeast at about 4 p.m. to provide the right shadows and--"

"Wait. What's this for?"

Oh Jayzus, "Fine. It's for a proposal."

"Ohhhhhh..." I could hear the scratch of his whiskers and the creak of his neck as he nodded his head, now fully endowed with higher understanding. "OK then. A pra-posuhl."

I gave him the rest of the specifics and reiterated that I needed a fast turn time: back in my hands within 72 hours. "Well," he sighed, "I'm still workin' with 35," he said.

"35? 35mm? Process film?"

"Yeah -- just don't really want to give up control over the image, you know?"

"No."

"I've been thinkin' 'bout switchin', though. Del over there in Hutchins, he switched."

"Really. Listen, Maynard: I need the shots taken, proofs sent, any touchup work done and the finals in my hands in 72 hours."

"Ohh..." His neck creaked in a side to side motion now, "Well, I don't work with the labs I used to, back in the day. Don't rightly know if they're still in business. You know, ol' Ed, he mighta made the switch. In fact, I'm pretty sure he did. 'Course, he only ever did this stuff part time. He lives there in Crooked Knee. I could give you his number..." oh my God oh my God oh my God, "But Burt -- yeah, Burt made the switch a few years back.. right there in Backwater, too."

"OK. Excellent. Give me Burt's number."

"Don't know as that'd help you much."

"Why not?"

"Burt's dead."

"I--- forget it. Look, can you do the job or not, Maynard?"

"How you going to get the photos in your hands in three days, young man?"

"You're going to send them to me."

"Even with overnight mail," (you get overnight service there?) "It'll still take a day to shoot it, and two days to process it."

"Email me digital proofs."

"Ohhh...." I could hear him nodding again, "You probably need this sent to you on that innernet thing, huh? Well, I s'pose I could go to the Kinkos over in Hogwash an' maybe they can--"

"Hey Maynard?"

"Yes?"

"I'll call back if I still need you."

Fifteen minutes lost, I hurriedly called the remaining photographer, located somewhere in Hiccup, Kansas. "Hello?" C'mon... who answers business phones like this?

"Sorry... I thought I was calling Melvin's Photography."

"Yup."

"Oh. Okay... Umm... is Melvin there?"

"Nope."

"Is Melvin coming back anytime soon?"

"Yup."

"Can you have him call me, please?"

A sigh. "Awright."

I imparted my name, number, location of the job and mentioned that I needed this within 3 days. She moaned, "Oh. Oh no."

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"Can he do it?"

"Dunno. I'll have him call you."

This was yesterday.

...

They Grow 'Em Like This in NY

2009-01-22T09:16:00.005-07:00

I cannot seem to manage to step into the 21st century and post a link to someone's web page. So, if you're reading this, please stop reading and go to:
http://www.timmollen.com/humor_column/humor_column.html
...then read that for awhile. He is funny. He will make you laugh... or he will make you a sandwich. You have nothing to lose.

Then, come back here. I've decided to start writing again.

Or, forward the sandwich. I'm hungry.

AC/DC

2008-12-13T07:32:00.005-07:00

I have a friend, who shall remain nameless, that asserts she does not like fish. HOWEVER, I have it on good authority that she is spending the weekend with a seafood loving friend she met over the Innanet, together, in a hotel room, after many martinis and an evening trolling for the catch of the day at the Hagens Fish Market. Chances are, beef is NOT what was for dinner last night.

Not that there's anything wrong with... fish. It's just that she's so adamant about how much she prefers meat -- to the point of ricockulousness, really. I'm like, "Whatever, friend. So, have the kielbasa and leave the fish tacos for someone else. Why are we even talking about this?"

I'm not saying she's all of the sudden a fish lover. I'm merely saying that she may be in a dark hotel room, confused and fumbling around for her misplaced steak knife. I mean, whatever. Next she'll be calling me saying, "The fish looked pretty good," then, "I think I might like fish after all," then, "Hey Brian: I've sworn off of beef."

Again, not that there's anything wrong with... fish... but, really dear: lesbehonest about it.

Marathon Man

2008-10-19T08:31:00.004-06:00

The Denver Marathon was this morning. I cannot believe I've lived here for 15 years and the extent of my involvement with it has only been viewing it on t.v.

You'll be amazed to know that I got through it in only 42 minutes. It was arduous, for sure. There were moments when I thought I wouldn't make it. But I slogged on, veering down the city streets, crawling at points, but never giving up.

40 minutes in, I made my big break... finding a left turn that wasn't blockaded, I sped west toward the highway and circumvented the rest of the city with ease. Now, in the comfort of the coffee shop, I realize that marathons are not for me. Just the same, I now understand the tremendous sense of accomplishment involved in such an undertaking.

I'll Say Hi to the Big Bopper for You

2008-10-05T23:23:00.003-06:00

I have to fly out on assignment tomorrow. But here's the thing: it's on a corporate jet, a small one, the kind you practice yoga to board. And the flight is over various ranges of the Rocky Mountains. I have a thing about small planes and mountainsides. I don't believe in any kind of symbiotic relationship between them. Flying over mountains doesn't unnerve me. It's the having to emergency land into their granite sides and jagged pitches... they're just not well designed runways. Flying over Nebraska or Kansas, however, no big deal. Basic runway states. Land anywhere. Hey: try the corn. Flying over large bodies of water does not unnerve me... unless those bodies are also referred to as oceans. And then, as soft as I think that landing would be compared to the early harvest of some midwestern cornfield, there's the whole, "Let's get out of the plane, float around and wait for a search party" thing... because when I think of ocean search parties, I think dorsal fins and sharky bitey death. It's not bad enough that you have to crash, escape and swim for hours -- it's that now you get the opportunity for mind-twistingly painful disembowlment by serrated mawed killing machines. Sweet.

On the bright side, flying over the mountains at least ensures a sudden death if one crashes. Ooh... umm... unless your a soccer team flying over the Andes.

I always try to dress nice when I fly, though. It's sometimes gotten me upgrades to first class if I'm hanging out in a suit and tie. But that's not really why I'm in the suit and tie. I'm in it because if my plane crashes, I'll at least go to heaven looking somewhat formal, because if dressing for success counts anywhere...

I'd be so much more comfortable in my riding leathers, though. And, less chance of severe burns. Hell, I might even start wearing my helmet. Then I could say to the other passengers, "I really don't like our chances on this flight. Hey, has the drink cart been by yet?"

Sunstain

2008-10-04T07:43:00.004-06:00

I've tried to ignore it. I really have. But every morning as I towel off from my bleary-eyed sudsy ritual, I look down at the 2.5" perfectly square brown splotches atop my feet and note that, yes, they're still there: sunstain tattooes inked by the exposure area of my Tevas sandals, during a trip to South Beach to visit my dear friends Cat and Paul.

In February, 2004.

Wtf?

I suppose they would have been better protected had I worn socks. But had I worn socks in sandals, I never would have met any of my Janes, and further I would have had to marinate in a vat of Cartier and Aqua di Gio then immolate myself atop a pyre of GQ and Details magazines while onlookers launch motley-colored Crocs from Speedo slingshots at my broiling, bubbling head.

You know, on principal.

Because I grew up in NY -- and that's where fashion comes from.

Christmas Goose (Part 5)

2008-10-01T11:51:00.002-06:00

We sawed off the other wing, and turned our attention to the head and feet. I hoped filleting the bird would save some of the gore, but with limited counter space it was clear that the remaining appendages would need to be removed, and decapitation was in order. It would be for the best to bring inside as little of the bird as possible. The image of a bloodied, wingless goose complete with head and feet, sprawled across the counter in my well-lit kitchen was too surreal, and I brought the butcher knife down against the neck.

Parts thunked into the trashcan. I felt dirty. Granted, I was covered in goose bile and blood, but I felt dirty inside. And though I hadn’t killed the bird, and though its systematic mutilation seemed necessary to eat it, there was a depravity in the act, worsened by the sheer incompetence in accomplishing the job. These sick feelings heightened when Mark nodded toward the second bird, “I’m gonna let you handle that one yourself,” he said.

I paused, staring at its intact beauty. My hands had gone numb again, and the foul smell that had soaked into them kept me on the brink of gagging. I blinked, looked at Mark, and then slowly toward the trashcan.
He shook his head, “You shouldn’t have taken two.”
“I shouldn’t have taken one,” I added. “You want it?”
“Hell no,” he said without hesitation, and opened the second trash bag for our feathered friend.

We quickly swept up and sealed both bags. Mark grabbed the hacked bird torso and went inside to wash. I pulled my cap low to my eyes, scooped the hood of my parka over my head, and crept to the back alley to discard the incriminating evidence into an empty trashcan – an empty trashcan at the opposite end of the alley, that is. Though I wished no ill will upon my neighbor, the anxiety of waiting for garbage pickup for three days was more than I was prepared to cope with.

I turned the handle to the back door using my coat sleeves, and stepped in, realizing my face had gone numb from the cold as the 68-degree climate seared rosy life across it. The mutilated bird lay on my white countertop, awaiting surgery. Mark assisted in filleting the breasts, and we dropped them in a bowl of salted water, to help extract additional blood. I rooted around for the birdshot and extracted four pieces of lead.
Janie walked in, martini in hand, “Where’s the rest of it?”
Both Mark and I scowled at her, and she stepped back.
“Honey,” I calmly said, “Are you even going to eat it?”
She cocked an eyebrow, “Not after what I saw.” She jerked away from me in disgust, “Jesus, Brian. What’s that smell?”
“Me, apparently.” I had washed several times before filleting the breasts, but could not remove the thick stench from my hands.

Later, Janie gave me some of her best, most girlie-smelling hand cream to overpower the goose odor, and it did improve things -- my hands smelled like lilac manure, a solid step above the musky carcass stench. I wore the smell for three days before it began to fade.

On the long trip from the parking lot to my office building at Rocky Mountain Arsenal, I had to pass many clusters of geese, padding about on the faded winter lawn. They cocked their tiny heads toward me, and some even approached as I scurried for the safety of the building. I was sure that they knew and were plotting against me. Perhaps they were just confused, wondering why I smelled like a goose but didn’t look like one. “Odd bird. Smells of lilac. He’s probably gay,” they seemed to say.

I dropped the filets at my mother’s house, including three recipes I’d researched for their preparation. Still, I had no interest in eating them.

Christmas dinner came and the family gathered around the table. My mother proudly carried a covered platter into the dining room as we unfolded our napkins over our laps. I would make do with side dishes and salad, I thought. Even though I wasn’t going to partake in the dining experience, I felt excited for the unveiling, that the others might enjoy the fruit of my gruesome labor. My mother placed the platter in the center of the table and removed the lid with flair, to a swell of oohs and ahs and assorted high praise.
“That looks great, Gail,” my stepfather exclaimed.
“Oh Gail,” Janie nodded, “It smells absolutely delicious.”
“Good work, Gail,” and, “Beautiful,” and, “I can’t wait to taste it.”

I remained silent, and stared at the platter. It was beautiful. It smelled delicious. The thought of it warmed my belly with Christmas delight. From all around the table, I felt the eyes of family and guests upon me, as I hadn’t said anything, instead staring, unblinking at the piece de resistance. I leaned over to my mother and whispered, “Where’s the goose?”
“Oh, honey,” she shook her head, “That wouldn’t have been enough to feed all of us. So I made this turkey instead. I threw your little package in the freezer. Don’t forget to take it home later.”

I did take it home, and placed it in the freezer, thinking that as soon as the nightmares stopped, I would cook it up. But I had to face it every time I needed an ice cube, and eventually the filets worked their way to the back corner of the freezer, next to the frozen okra and below a stack of undated, foil-sheathed slabs of mystery meats.

I didn’t forget about them, though. And, one balmy summer evening that July, I reached into the back corner of the freezer, pulled them out, and promptly dropped them in the trash on top of three recipes for a perfect Christmas goose dinner.

Christmas Goose (Part 4)

2008-10-01T11:45:00.002-06:00

At home, Janie peered out the window as I hurriedly unloaded the boxes from the bed of my pickup truck and brought them around back away from the view of the neighbors. Janie leaned out the back door as I opened the lid of one box, then leaned back in and contorted her face, “Where’d you get THAT?”

I don’t know what I had been thinking, but as I searched for an explanation far more impressive than the truth, I realized there was nothing to be said. Janie knew I didn’t hunt. Janie knew me better than anyone, and though I longed to impress upon her the potential magnitude of my manliness, bringing home another hunter’s kill didn’t exactly bolster my macho image. “Do you remember Rick Da---?” I started.
“Rick Dangerfield? Oh God, yes. I mean, isn’t he the Director of Health and Safety for Fish and Wildlife?”
“Um, yeah.”
All evidence of disgust fled her face as she beamed, “That was so nice of him! How sweet! We should write him a thank you note right away.”
“Yeah. Sweet.”
“Ooh, but you’d better do something about… about… those,” once again overcome with expressions of nausea, she waved her hand as if to brush the geese off the back porch. “What are you going to do with those, anyway?”
“Mark’s coming over to show me how to strip them.”
“Mark who?”
“Mark. Mark Lomax?”
She stared blankly.
“Mark Lomax – my best friend? Has a wife, Marie? They were here last week for dinner?”
“Uh-huh. Whatever. I’m going to go look for my good stationary. Ooh, maybe I should bake him some thank you muffins instead. Or a pie. Which do you think?” But she disappeared into the house before I could tell her what I really thought.

Mark arrived with Marie promptly at 6:00 p.m. The temperature had dropped unfathomably, and we were both wrapped so heavily in sweaters and coats that our arms poked helplessly outward away from our sides like fluffy stick figures. We stood and examined the boxes. He looked none too thrilled, and frowned even more when I showed him my surgical tools: a serrated butcher knife, a well-worn paring knife, and a small, rusty pair of pruning shears that I had unearthed in the garage. They were no longer sharp enough to trim the rose bush, but I thought perhaps they could be of use now.

“That’s it? That’s all you have?” Mark shook his head.
“Well, I have a bread knife inside if you think—“
“Never mind. Where do you want to do this?”
“What’s wrong with right here?””Too small,” he surveyed the back porch, “We’re going to need to get two trash cans up here.”
“What for?”
“Feathers.”
I tried to envision filling two trashcans with feathers. It hardly seemed possible.
“How about the back yard? Do you have a light back here?”
I bit my lip, immediately regretting the act as the moisture was icily whisked away, “The only light is on the front porch.”
“The front porch is big enough.”
“But the neighbors.”
“We’ll have to do it as stealthily as possible. Plus, it’s not like your neighbors have nothing better to do than look out at your front porch.”

He didn’t know my neighbors.

We brought the geese, cans and tools to the front porch, which had nothing but a three-foot brick railing and an additional half-foot rise of jagged juniper bushes to obscure our clandestine procedure.

“What now?” I asked.
“Now we pluck one.”
“Can’t we just cut into it?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I just hunt quail, Brian. I suppose it depends on how you want to serve it. We might be able to filet it.”

I thought of all the wasted parts, and how pathetic a filleted goose would look on the Christmas dinner table. I pictured myself carrying a platter to the table, amidst oohs and ahs of hungry family, and the piece de resistance looked something more like a big, browned whole turkey. “ I think I want to bake it,” I asserted.

Mark shook his head once more, and we commenced the joint plucking of the first bird.

The volume of feathers was astonishing. I kept pulling at a patch on the belly, each time removing a fist full of fluff, with little evidence of headway. No wonder jackets and comforters are filled with goose down. Why, I could have made two pillows, a duvet and a winter parka from this one goose. We held the bird over the trashcan and plucked and plucked but got nowhere. It wasn’t long before I couldn’t feel my fingers from the cold, and I was grateful for the numbness. I looked over my shoulder at the thermometer by the front door: ten degrees. Down floated around the garbage can, and blew gently into the driveway. The mess grew. After about forty more minutes we had exposed its belly. Another half hour saw the removal of the majority of feathers from its torso on every side.
“Now what,” I sighed.
“Now we remove its guts.”
“Like, how?”
“Like you’d do with a store-bought turkey, I guess,” Mark shrugged.
“Oh, yeah. Right.” I’d never cleaned a bird before. “So, like, how?”
Mark made a circle with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand, folded the fingers on his right hand together, and pushed them through the circle.
“You’re kidding.”
“Up the butt, man.”
“Alright. You do this one, I’ll watch and do the next.”
“Nuh-uh. Your bird. Your job. I’ll hold it and spread its legs.”
“Shouldn’t I use some kind of lubricant?”
“The blood will work fine,” he assured me as I recoiled. “C’mon man, it’s freezing out here,” he urged.
“Fine.” I located the port of entry, grabbed the bird by its floppy but stiffening neck in my other hand, turned my head away and pushed.
“Harder,” Mark said.
The sheer act of it was surreal to me. We were violently defiling one of God’s little creatures by porch light. I pushed harder, but my little bird friend seemed to have clenched pretty good in its death throes.
“Harder!” Mark said.
I couldn’t help it -- I broke out laughing as I thrust my pinched hand into the goose. ‘Yeah? Like that? Huh? You like that? HUH?”
“Harder!” Mark chuckled.
“C’mon! You know you like it, baby. C’mon!” I laughed. My hand broke through into the body cavity and I stopped laughing. The expression of revulsion on my face, however, caused Mark to double over with laughter, and he lost his grip on the bird.

The Venetian blinds on the front window separated as Janie and Marie looked out to see what the commotion was about. I turned around to face them, my new goose glove slid on up to my wrist, poised in the air over the trashcan. I smiled. The girls shrieked and the blinds snapped shut.

When Mark returned to his senses, he told me to extract everything I could from the body cavity. I began groping about inside, grabbing squishy lumps and pulled them out by the bloody handful. The second extraction left my hand and wrist covered in something black.
“Probably bile,” Mark said casually, but slowly began to ponder something.
I shoved my hand back inside and rooted around, ripping free anything that didn’t seem permanently attached. I pulled out another fistful.
“Keee-ripes!” My back arched and I extended both the bird and my hand as far away from me as possible, “What is that smell?” We were overcome by a putridity so foul that it escaped definition. It seemed to originate inside the bird, but most definitely extended to my bloody, blackened hand.
“Oh yeah,” Mark said from behind a gloved mitt that covered his nose and mouth, “You want to be careful when pulling the innards out. They have a musk gland or something in there that you don’t want to rupture.”
“You think?” I gagged.
“It’ll ruin the meat,” he added.
“So now what!”
“I don’t know. Start over with the other bird?”
“No way. Nuh-uh. I’m over it. Talk to me about filleting this damned thing. Can we cut into it?” I handed him the butcher knife with my clean hand, he put the bird on the porch floor and tried to find a way to approach the incision.
“I need more light.”
“We’ll have to take it inside.”
“It won’t fit on the counter.” With its wings now flopping freely from its torso, it must have been a good five feet wide. We resolved to remove the wings, and once again held it over the trash can, but the pruning shears were far too dull, and only seemed to crush cartilage and bone near its goose shoulder as Mark twisted and tugged at it. I handed him the butcher knife once more and he began to saw. “Pull on the wing and I’ll hold the body,” he said, cutting through the joint, the bird wobbling in a creepy lifelike fashion with each stroke. “Pull harder. It needs to be more taught.” I pulled harder. “No, harder.” He sawed away and sighed, “This knife sucks. Let me have the shears again.” I traded him the shears for the knife and he began pruning bone once more. “Pull harder!” he demanded through gritted teeth.

We were both fully back on our heels as though engaged in a twisted tug of war when the wing ripped free. He fell on his butt, mutilated bird landing in his lap, and I reeled backwards without footing, flailing my arms to gain balance, waving a massive butchered wing overhead.

The blinds parted right before the wing collided with the front window, causing the girls to shriek wildly. It must have been quite a sight for Janie and Marie, Mark on the ground with a one-winged butchered bird in his lap and me dancing about the porch, waving a three-foot wing in one hand and a butcher knife in the other, a cloud of pinfeathers swirling at my feet. They didn’t open the blinds again.

Christmas Goose (Part 3)

2008-10-01T11:08:00.003-06:00

I met Rick in the bitter, windswept parking lot. Tumbleweeds hurried across the pavement, and huddled together under the frames of the vehicles, shivering. I tried not to quiver in front of Rick, but the wind pierced through my parka and bit at my ears under my wool cap, and I had forgotten to wear the long johns I usually use to give me more girth under my clothing. Rick waited patiently in his short sleeve Fish and Wildlife shirt and khaki slacks, leaning comfortably against his truck, picking at his manicured cuticles with a Swiss Army knife.

He dropped the tailgate on his pickup truck and raised the door for the cap. I peered in: feathered death. There appeared to be about eight slain geese piled atop one another, their hopes and dreams ventilated by birdshot through their bellies, tiny purple tongues protruding out from their slack beaks.

It had never occurred to me that geese have tongues.

“Take your pick, excepting these three in the front here. They’re for the orphans.”

“Of course they are. Wow, there’s a lot of them. And… and look: they have feathers. Look at that. They’re all… feathery.” I’m not sure if I expected them to be set properly in a Styrofoam tray and shrink wrapped, but I hadn’t calculated the plucking process. I paused and wondered if it was in poor form to decline his offer. I wondered if he’d realize that I knew nothing of guns and killing and diesel trucks, and that perhaps my only claim to masculinity was a ritual morning shave.

Rick looked back toward the offices, “Go ahead and grab one.”

I had to crawl over the carnage, trying my best to cling to the ceiling of the cap, legs split across the bed from wheel well to wheel well while I closed my eyes and squeezed the smooth, cool neck of one of the geese and pulled him out with me. It was surprisingly heavy. I laid him across the tailgate, his head slung limp over one side, his tail feathers sticking out over the other. “I had no idea they were this big.”

“Dinner with the girlfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah… umm… no—“ Why is he asking about Janie? “Well, yeah. Janie and my mother, stepfather, his kids, some neighbors—“

“Better take two,” he smiled generously, quickly looked about and urged me back into the truck.

Iew. I dragged another out, and he brushed my Christmas dinner to the pavement below before slamming the tailgate shut and dropping the cap door, to lock it.

“Best get those in your truck,” he clapped his hand on my shoulder as though I’d done him a favor and then strutted back to his office.

I left them on the ground, pulled my truck around and hefted each of them into the open bed with a thunk! My light, Nissan pickup bobbed with each impact. I was amazed at their weight.

In the warmth of my officicle my brain began to thaw and I realized I had no idea of how to prepare a goose. From the Internet, I downloaded three succulent looking recipes for the perfect Christmas goose dinner. Notably, none of the entrée presentations included feathers. I wasn’t sure about how to pluck feathers, and wanted to approach the task properly, so as not to risk damaging the final, magnificent presentation of my delectable geese.

I called my good friend Mark Lomax, whom I knew to trudge through brush and shoot at things, sometimes wildlife. Surely he would know the best defeathering method.

“What do you mean you have geese? Where?” he asked, with a curious alarmed tone.
“In the back of my truck, man.”
“At the Arsenal? You’d better get them out of there.” He hurriedly explained to me the criminal punitions for the possession of geese without a hunting license.
“But I didn’t hunt them. I’m not a hunter. I don’t even have a gun. I’m a gatherer,” I cried, “I gathered the geese!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mark added. “You’re in possession of a migratory bird without a hunting and conservation stamp.” He elaborated, touching upon powerful imagery such as imprisonment and up to $15,000 in fines.

Doing what I do best, I panicked.

“Well, maybe they’re tagged,” he added.
“Like with a bar code?”
“No, you—They should have tags on them with the hunter’s name, address and total kill number?”
“What if they don’t?”
“Who gave you these geese,” he asked, appalled.
“Rick.”
“Rick Dangerfield?” he asked. Mark used to work at the Arsenal, right around the time that Rick started. “Why I can’t believe that. Did you talk to him? Wow, I haven’t seen him in years. Does he ever mention me?”
“Mark, focus.”
“Right. So, what kind of geese are they?”
“I don’t know. Dead geese.”
“Snow geese? Canadian geese?”
“How the hell should I know? It’s not like they carry papers.”
“Snow geese are predominantly white, and there’s no kill limit, so possession isn’t treated as harshly. Canadian geese have a light grey underbelly, dark wings and a dark head with a patch of—“
“White? A patch of white? Shit! I’m going to jail, aren’t I? Are they protected? Are they endangered? Oh God, I’m going to jail on possession.” But it wasn’t the cool kind of possession that might win you friends in jail and keep you alive. Christ, they beat the hell out of pedophiles in prison – what will they do to someone who seemingly kills endangered birds for fun?
“They’re not endangered,” Mark reassured me, “but there is a bag limit of six. How many did he have?”
“Like, eight, I think.”
“So he gave you two to get down to his possession limit.”
Bastard! I knew he was no good. I smiled, “Maybe I should tell someone?”
“Tell them what? That you have two dead Canadian honkers without a hunting license? Cover them up or something,” Mark urged. “Get a big box. You’ve got to stop at the guard post on the way out and, trust me, you don’t want them to see those. They’ll assume you got them off the Arsenal. Then you’ve got another federal crime to contend with, and – umm, don’t take this wrong, but – you’re a little too fancy to fare well in prison.” He continued to feed my fear with worst-case scenarios, painting mental pictures of a joyous Christmas day filled with beatings and unsolicited manly love.

“Dude,” I implored, “Will you please help me clean these things?”
“I don’t know anything about dressing geese.”
“I’m not entering them in a fashion show, Mark. I just want to get the feathers and stuff off so Janie can cook them.”
“Dressing means—forget it. Look, Brian, I hunt quail. I don’t know anything about cleaning a goose. Rick probably field dressed them anyway.”
“I think the only thing he did was shoot them.”
“You mean he didn’t clean them at all? That’s not cool.”
Ah-ha! “He was supposed to clean them?”
“Well, it’s sort of hunters’ code to at least field dress the gift of a kill.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t. So I guess I have to. Will you help me?”

Mark moaned. I thought that hunter-types longed to get blood on their hands. Shouldn’t cleaning the kill be nearly as enjoyable as killing the kill? “Brian, I don’t know. It’s so damned cold, and I need to put up decorations tonight. And I have to make dinner for Marie and myself. And I have an early—“
“Dude! Pleeeease! I’m begging you man. I’ll totally owe you a favor. You may not know much about geese, but it’s 100% more than I know.”

After more moaning, Mark conceded. He instructed me to have clipping shears, sharp knives, and garbage bags at the ready. I smiled for a moment, thinking of sharp knives and shears and other manly instruments of destruction. I didn’t, however, envision their application.

I went to the supply room to steal a garbage bag to stuff the geese in, only to discover wastebasket-size clear trash bags. I took two, and then took two of the largest boxes I could find out of the reproduction room. Outside in the biting cold, I gripped the smooth, cold carcasses and shoved them into the bags. One purple tongue was pressed tautly against the clear plastic. I jammed the bags into the boxes, guiltily looking this way and that, and then sweated out the rest of the icy day in my cubicle, dreading the ride past the guard post and all the way home.

I normally speed a bit when driving, but all the way off the Arsenal I maintained the exact speed limit. Police should be most wary of those that do the speed limit.

Christmas Goose (Part 2)

2008-10-01T11:04:00.005-06:00

The email plinked into officicles across the floor on a bitterly cold Denver December morning: “Free Christmas Geese.” “Bagged my quota again,” Rick bragged, “so, I’m happy to offer a Christmas goose for your holiday table if you’re interested.”

What a braggart. I don’t need his testosterone-tainted gifts to feed my family. I’ve been a successful gatherer for years, gathering coupons and battling for superior position in the most combative assortment of holiday checkout queues – bringing to the table an impressive assortment of beasts for dollars off the pound, humbling lesser price shoppers for miles around. Rick probably couldn’t even arrange a smart and balanced floral centerpiece for his Christmas dinner.

Rick and I both worked at Rocky Mountain Arsenal, an Army base-turned Superfund cleanup site, slated for reintroduction into Colorado as a U.S. Fish and Wildlife protection area for the observation of bald and golden eagles every October as they migrated down from Alaska. The eagles would majestically swoop in, perch on a barren branch and rest for a moment. Then, as if to say, “What a dump,” they’d whoosh quickly on their way. I was an editor for a contracted recordkeeping company, convincing myself that the millions of pages of documents that crossed my desk should be free of typos and grammatical errors. Rick operated as Director of Health and Safety for U.S. Fish and Wildlife. I’m not sure if he found anything redeeming in that.

He had something mysterious about him that attracted all the women at the Arsenal. Perhaps it was his high-ranking position, or maybe the all-American Midwestern boy look, square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and a full head of hair that tousled itself to blond points that directed the eye to every one of the best of his perfectly chiseled features. He held a higher degree than I, a better position, drove a new truck every year, and smiled humbly though toothily at the ladies in such a fashion that they would lose their sensibilities and talk about him incessantly after he passed, blushing and playfully twisting their hair. I had no choice but to look up to him.

He stood a good three inches taller than I.

The last thing I wanted was to have Rick provide for my family. But with the financial embarrassment of an editor’s wages, the allure of a traditional Christmas goose became strong, even though I was unsure of whose tradition it was. Perhaps I could glean a little masculine glory by simply bringing such a kill to the table. I shot an email back quickly, typing with a dexterity and rapidity that surely couldn’t be replicated by Rick’s clunky, hunter hands, “Rick: The offer of holiday fowl is quite magnanimous of you,” I wrote, quietly hoping he’d have to walk to his bookshelf to search for a dusty dictionary, slip on the way, fall backwards and strike his perfectly shaped skull on the corner of his big Director’s wood desk – not in such a fashion as to kill him: I’m not petty or cruel. But perhaps just hard enough to leave him with a speech impediment and a propensity to drool slightly when he parted his lips to flash that bright smile.

With a slight grin I sent off the email. I stood up, grabbed my coffee cup, and turned to leave my officicle, when an email plinked into my inbox. Rick, RE: RE: Christmas Geese. “Brian, I am overjoyed at your timely response and reciprocally kind assistance with my dilemma. If it’s not an inconvenience, please be so kind as to meet me outside at 10:30 a.m. in the lower parking lot by the new, white, Ford F350, where you may choose from the assortment of my cache of fowl – excepting the three largest, which I will be delivering this evening to a home for orphaned and troubled children where I volunteer nights and weekends. I apologize for that shameless plug above, regarding the orphanage, but we are always looking for volunteers, as the home is seriously understaffed and in dire need of the kindness of whatever generous souls are willing to open their hearts to these beautiful children in need. I shall see you at 10:30. Thank you, Rick.”

Wow. What a total run-on sentence.

Christmas Goose (Part 1)

2008-10-01T10:46:00.002-06:00

I had always fancied myself something of a man’s man, the sort of man to cause a woman to stop dead in the street, ponder her poor luck, then assume me married or gay.

Unfortunately, I never really had many of the trappings of the objective man’s man, such as biceps sculpted like boulders from the mighty Rocky Mountains, or the steel blue eyes that blaze from behind leathery but perfectly carved cheekbones, or a firm jaw supporting a broad-toothed smile which I would flash at some precious darling that caught my steely gaze from a shop window. Or perhaps I would stoically reserve its brilliance for good laughs over beers at the hunting lodge with the boys. I didn’t quite possess a fabulously broad chest, or shoulders you could land a Cessna aircraft along. I didn’t have buns like two red delicious apples straining against the back pockets of sturdy dirty denims, concealing a wallet full of cash.

To my knowledge, there’s never been much coveting of my anything by anyone.

I was also pretty aware that men’s men didn’t “fancy” themselves anything, since men’s men didn’t use words like fancy, or fabulous. I didn’t fill out my flannel shirts too well, and often heisted extra napkins from fast food restaurants for the purpose of padding the back pockets of my freshly washed Levi’s to lend to the appearance of having a backside at all.

Men’s men wielded power tools, and ventured into forests with firearms and Sawzalls to dispatch animals I considered cute and fuzzy, and bring them home to grill up with a German beer rather than to unwrap, sauté and serve with a fine pinot noir that sported notes of currant and pepper. In fact, my lone excursions into the wilderness, to date, could have been admonished by critics as cutting through the neighbor’s evergreen patch to shorten the tiring quarter-mile hike to ballroom dance lessons – a notion my father had to improve my marketability among single women.

“A lot of guys don’t dance, son,” he patted my teenage shoulder as he discreetly ushered me into my first lesson, “You need an edge. You really need an edge.”

So obviously when the opportunity presented itself decades later to bring home a goose for Christmas dinner, I leapt at it. I envisioned myself with three days growth of beard, strutting through my parent’s door in my buffalo checked hunting jacket, woolen pants, and deer stalker cap – proudly holding in my iron, calloused grip the limp neck of a magnificent goose, eliciting gasps of pride from my adoring family and girlfriend, Jane. In this vision it seemed to me that I should also have an empty shotgun resting open and smoking in the cradle of my other arm, as it was unlikely that any goose would swoon to death in the humbling presence of my new manly ensemble. Hence, the offer of a pre-murdered goose by a man possessing such manly appurtenances would have to suffice.

Oh, So THAT'S What It Means

2008-08-31T08:53:00.006-06:00

Last night, in Santa Fe, I discovered that "tapas" is Spanish for "tiny, costly food."

Two pieces of cheese, three slices of pepperoni, 4 olives, 1 oz. prosciutto: $18.00.

Now It's Time for Change

2008-08-20T11:49:00.004-06:00

Maybe I should elaborate on why I closed my account at Wells Fargo. I didn't really need my money, I just wanted to move it to another bank where I keep my other money. So, why not move it to Wells Fargo?

Well, one day, just before closing my account, I went in with a jar full of pennies and asked the bank teller to exchange them for bills. She gave me a super surly sneer and said, “Sir, what do you think this is?”
I looked around at the desks, the guard, and at the vault. “I think it’s a bank. This is what you do. You count money for a living.”
“We don’t do that, sir. If you’d like to make a transaction…. A deposit, for example—“
“Fine. I’d like to deposit this in my account.”
“Fine, sir," she looked at the jar, "How much is there?"
"I don’t know. Looks like you'll have to count it."

I filled out a withdrawal slip while she counted.

I Will Go Butch Cassidy On Your Ass

2008-08-19T13:42:00.004-06:00

Why do I have to stand in line to argue to get my money from my bank? I use more than one bank, because I have a major problem with paying non-customer-related additional fees at ATMs. There are some banks that don't charge you for your ATM use, so I decided to consolidate some of my institutions, and walked into Wells Fargo to close my account – in essence, to ask to use all of my money.

I was ushered to a large desk in a small room of glass walls, where I was later met by a woman her hair pulled back so tight it looked as though her head had been threaded through the eye of a needle. Her facial muscles held a pained expression in place until she sat down in her big leather chair behind her big desk in her small room, cautiously folded her fingers, looked at me intently and audibly cracked a smile. I mean I could hear the ripping of facial tissue as the upper row of her teeth forced themselves into the open air.
“Mr. Blair, I’m Ms. Penniworth. I would like to find out if there is a problem with your account, or with our service.”
“No problem, really. I would just like to have my money now, thanks.”
“What do you need it for?”
This gave me pause. I felt 16 years old, asking my mom for the keys to her car. Are you kidding? What do I need MY MONEY for? It’s my money, isn’t it? “I’d just like to have it, please.”
“Mr. Blair," she cleared her throat and continued to bare her teeth, "Are you aware of the advantages of taking a loan as a Wells Fargo customer?”
"Umm... if I hold onto your money, I don't have to give it back either?"

Blank stare from her. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties, and, despite a serious pucker factor and wardrobe choices by Barbara Bush I tried to imagine for a moment that if she let down her hair, kinda shook it out a bit, took off those horn-rimmed glasses and maybe put on a little lipstick, she might actually be kinda hot.

Nope.

"By taking a loan with us, or perhaps a second mortgage--"
"I don't have a first mortgage with you."
"Splendid, because right now we're offering exceptionally low rates on--"
"I rent."
"That doesn't matter." From behind a computer monitor she pored over my entire worth in the eyes of Wells Fargo, "How much did you say you wanted to borrow?"
"About $7,100."
"Heh," she started to laugh -- finance humor, I guess, "It just so happens that is the exact amount you have in your account with us."
"RIGHT."
"Well then," crack, ripppp, "This shouldn't be hard to process at all, seeing as you've been a loyal customer and you have the current fluidity to back the loan,"
“I don’t need a loan. I have my own money. Well, YOU have my money.”
She furled her eyebrow in confusion, “But if you take a loan you wouldn’t need to close your account with us.” Which, I'm sure made perfect sense to her.
“Oh no no no no no, darlin': I WANT to close my account with you.”

The Return of Gerald

2008-08-18T13:14:00.004-06:00

Anyone... everyone: I need your help!

There's, like, no good way to tell Jane this, but this morning, at an ungodly hour, unable to sleep, I was puttering about in the kitchen attempting to make coffee that didn't taste of tar, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something run from the laundry room to under the fridge.

Now, granted, I've been up since 3:33 a.m., but I've seen this streaking act before in a different house and I'm pretty damned sure that I didn't hallucinate a mouse. And it's not like the place is dirty. It was cleaned top to bottom just last week... I mean CLEANED: Spic n' Span, Ajax, Mr. Clean CLEANED... every nook and cranny. I'm thinking that with a sudden and severe weather change two days ago, the little bastard decided to move into the house from the garden or something. Plus, the laundry room houses Bob's dog food, so maybe he sniffed out a renegade kibble nugget or something.

But how the hell am I going to tell Jane? Mice freak her out. She's going to have a cow. And I sure can't house a dog, a cow and a mouse.

I mean, I can go to the store and buy a buttload of D-Con, but the sudden presence of D-Con will lead her to the same conclusion, and then I'll be in trouble for not telling her I saw a mouse.

What do I do?

3:33 a.m.

2008-08-18T06:01:00.002-06:00

Why do I keep waking up at 3:33 a.m.?

I've been researching it for awhile this morning and some say it's just an easily remembered time, so we ignore the other times when we wake up. Others say that it's angels/spirit guides trying to send you a message or comfort you. I don't know what's so bloody comfortable about being awakened in the middle of the night and then not getting back to sleep (especially on a Monday)! And what's the message? "Good morning, Brian. It's 3:33 a.m. Have a nice (long) day!"

Some say angels... but it feels like devils. I like to think angels are a bit nicer. Angels would let me sleep.

I Dated the World's Worst Mom

2008-08-17T14:24:00.004-06:00

Meanwhile, back in Innanet Dating Land....

My wicked, nimble digits had clicked their way into the life of a Colorado Springs mishap. I couldn’t help it. Her photo portrayed this really cute and shapely brunette (my Achilles heel: brunettes... or... well, women) and in a cosmic display of certain destiny, she wrote back. Letters led to long-distance phone calls and an eventual coordination of schedules. I should have known better than to entertain the idea of dating a girl that lives an hour away, but at the same time the concept had its merits.

Shanon called me the night before and told me she forgot that friends of hers from Germany were visiting, but that I was welcome to join them. How can you forget you have visitors from Germany? When I indicated on the phone that the following weekend might be better to try to meet instead, she said, “Well, I may be going to Florida next weekend.”
“You ‘may be’? Why don’t you know?”
“Well, I’m not sure what the guy expects from me in return for the trip. You know? But still… it’s like free tickets to Florida.”

Warning.

I tried declining to make the trip, as I was still recovering from mononucleosis, and any activity more than an hour was taxing. She urged me on, saying she'd show me "a really good time."

When I arrived at 2 p.m. they were finishing their second round of Bloody Marys. She didn’t look quite as arousing as her photo, but then, they rarely do. There were two girls and three guys sitting around the dining room table and I was having difficulty identifying which one was Shanon. I said hello to the room, and in a moment Shanon stood up and introduced herself. (I was relieved that I didn’t have to pick her out of the crowd, but troubled that it was an issue.) While the guests introduced themselves, Shanon drifted into the kitchen and offered me a drink, casually draping a napkin over a bong that stood at the end of the counter, her girlfriend discreetly sweeping up a scattering of marijuana seeds from the table. All but one fellow introduced himself, so I took the initiative, "Hi, I'm Brian. I didn't catch your name."
"Rob."
"Are you one of the visitors from Germany?"
"No."
"Oh. Umm... So... how do YOU know Shanon?"
He said nothing and Shanon interrupted with a singular laugh saying, "Oh, Rob's my ex. We met on Match, too!"
Rob didn't find it amusing. I postulated, "Well, that's cool. So you guys are still friends?"
"Yeah," Rob growled, "'Friends'."

Shanon began to laugh, bray almost, recounting how she got home at 4:30 that morning from dancing the night away. In fact, she was partying so strong that her visiting friends decided to leave her at the bar dancing with two guys, take a cab back to her place and wake her roommate just so they could get in and go to bed. The lot of them started drinking again upon waking at 8:30.

A dark-complected, brown-eyed child wandered about the living with a drooling watering can, seeking plants to drown. He paid me no mind. In fact, he ignored everyone in the room. Something told me he was the mature one of the group, so I asked his name. He ignored me. "Oh," Shanon said, "That's Dante."
"Who's Dante?"
"I am," he said without looking at me.
"Heh. OK, Dante. I mean, who's little boy are you." He looked at Shanon for a second and then went back to watering. Shanon interrupted his work to introduce me as Uncle Brian. I felt a little ill.
"Didn't I mention I have a son," she asked.
"Umm, no. No. Yeah -- no. I would have recalled that."
"He's from my first marriage. That guy was a real asshole."
"First marriage? How many times--"
"Oh, just twice."
She was between 25-26 years old.

No one had eaten that day and Shanon promised to lead us to a restaurant. It didn’t seem to be a priority for her though, as she instead directed us to the geological marvel, the Garden of the Gods, Dante in tow. Shanon had seen fit to bribe Dante with large amounts of cola earlier that day, and the caffeine had now taken possession of his mind and body. He twitched and kicked about in his car seat while chattering incessantly about the magnificent magnetic space rocks that keep us all from floating into the sun. When we freed him from the vehicle, we spent the next couple hours chasing him around the Garden, pulling him off of rocks and away from belaying climbers. His mother nonchalantly blamed it on the caffeine, accepting no responsibility for giving him the stuff in the first place. She was quite a sight in heels and dress slacks, climbing the rocks behind him with a burning cigarette dangling from her lips. I didn’t realize she smoked.

Shanon’s friends – now dwindled to two, Abbey and Joe, and me – were ready to fall over from hunger. We pleaded with her to reign the boy in so we could leave. She eventually led us to Manitou Springs, essentially an even more redneck suburb of the already ultra-conservative Colorado Springs, to a bar where literally everybody knew her name, first stopping off to see her mother so she could get some spending money.

Warning.

Her mother is a chain-smoking shop owner with a mouth like a sailor and a sense of humor to match.

By this time you may be wondering why I’m still on this date. So was I. It was certainly no longer a matter of manners. She had separated me from my wheels, and I was quite at her mercy, much as I was at the mercy of the bar menu. We were in luck, for the yellowed, tattered menu boasted “Manitou Springs Best Burger”. If it was the best when the menu was printed in 1993, I was sure it’d be even better by 2003. We impatiently ordered a round of meat, then drinks for the wait. From the bar Shanon brought Dante a pile of maraschino cherries for dinner and promised him some of her fries when the adults’ dinners came. He began pouring sugar packets into his glass of water to make it fit for his consumption.
“Dante, don’t.”
He sipped the drink, shook his head disdainfully, looked at his mother then me, raised an eyebrow and emptied another packet into the water.
“Dante, don’t,” she repeated, dragged off her cigarette and rolled her eyes away.
He sipped again and repeated the process until the water was sucrose saturated. She sighed in a “Well what can you do” fashion and went back to smoking and drinking.

This was no environment for a child, or for myself. I was tired, hungry, and the Epstein-Barr virus (mono) had my head in a vise. I wanted to go home, but Denver seemed a lifetime away from that smoky, noisy pit. I leaned over and mentioned to her that I needed to head back to my truck as I had plans to see a friend’s band that night.
“Oh, OK,” she said, then ordered Jaigermeister shots for Abbey and herself. More friends joined the table. She accepted a pitcher of beer from a flirtatious man at the bar. She began to loosen up, and suggested another night of dancing, picking up her cell phone and procuring a babysitter for her son for later.

Shanon and Abbey began to drink like true champions: red wine, Jaiger, vodka and cranberry, beer, peppermint schnapps. I was ill just watching them. The daylight slowly disappeared outside and the drinks kept coming, all to the soundtrack of Dante running around the bar, wailing like a fire engine while intermittently flailing his arms about and beating himself on top of the head with his hands. Out of boredom I wandered over to the jukebox where a new acquaintance, Daryl, joined me. He pumped some money into the machine and selected Blondie’s “Tide is High”, then proceeded to pick crappy pop song after crappy pop song. Daryl was cautiously gay, and I applauded his courage for living in the Springs. He corrected me, stating he was there on a date with one of Shanon’s bar friends, and prayed to get back to Denver safely.

I sat back down next to Shanon and asked yet again to be taken to my truck. She agreed, but the waitress brought another round. A tear may have welled in my eye. She sang along to Blondie on the jukebox, “I’m not the type of girl, who gives up just like that…”
What? The “type” of girl? You stupid bitch, it’s “I’m not the kind of girl!" She had gotten the lyrics wrong. I’d had enough. We were a poor match, with obviously differing values, and I was not going to spend another minute in that bar when I could be home doing something more stimulating like clipping my toe nails or watching the impression patterns of my popcorn ceiling. I stood up and announced to the table that I needed to be driven to my truck. She chugged her vodka and cranberry and within 15 minutes had joined me outside to transport me back. It had taken two and a half hours to pry her from her drinks.

Finally, back at my truck, she told me what a wonderful time she had and how interesting I was and that we should do it again real soon... as soon as she gets back from Florida, that is. She leaned in for a kiss. While I found her to be an atrocious mother, an obnoxious, inattentive date, and not nearly as attractive as the photo she'd posted, I honestly did quickly consider giving her a long, slow kiss. After all, I might still be contagious with mono.

Instead, I gave her the stranger hug where you only touch shoulders and arc your back and hips away as though there's a three foot flame coming up from the ground inbetween you.

“Call me?” she suggested.

"Mm." Call you the World's Worst Mother, you loon....

Two Years, Two Dates, Toodaloo Tw@#

2008-08-13T16:40:00.006-06:00

Meanwhile, back in Innanet dating land...

So, I made a second date with Paula, whom I took to the Hard Rock a week prior -- but I had actually met her two years prior at a Hipshake gig. Well, I called on a Wednesday telling her I just wanted to firm up plans for Friday and find out what time to pick her up, and she says, "About Friday..."
Iew. The next object will suck. Then she goes into this bit about how she has a fear of abandonment and that she needs to break the date, then tells me that she's sought immediate help for the situation but for now cannot see me again.

I laughed.

She didn't.

"Oh, you're not kidding, are you?" I asked.
"No. I have trouble getting close to people that I like because I'm afraid they'll leave me."
"So, you make a pre-emptive strike and leave them first?"
"Kind of."
"So... you like me." I can work with this.
"Yes. It's why I can't get involved with you right now."
Hmm... maybe not. "Am I the only one that sees the irony here? Would you prefer to go on a string of first dates with guys you don't like? Would that be more enjoyable for you?"
"My friends pressured me into putting my profile on Match. I should take it down."
"So, you like me... therefore you're dumping me."
"I am sorry. It's heightened when health issues are involved, and you have..."
"HAD. I HAD. I'm better now!"
"But you may relapse or something, right?"
"SHIT I hope not!"
"Well, you 'hope not'," she sighed, "I just don't want to fall for you and then have you taken away from me."

No worries. I think I'd run before I was taken.

We Spaniards, We Make Joke

2008-08-13T10:27:00.014-06:00

Smart move, fellas. Hey, if your sponsor told you to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you? I mean, no, would you, please?

Spanish Coach, Aito García Reneses, said the intention was a joke. Guard Jose Manuel Calderon said the intention "would always be interpreted as an affectionate gesture," and, "Whoever wants to interpret something different, confused absolutely." Kinda like Calderon's grasp on language? Player Pau Gasol asserted he was uncomfortable with it, and that some of the players in the photo weren't making the gesture. He must have been looking at a different photo. Ummm... ain't that you, Gasol, third from the left? Just checkin'.

Hey team, here's an idea: let's play ball in front of the whole world, do it in China, and -- OOH! I know: preface the whole thing by pissing off Asians and the rest of the thinking world!

(Sorry folks... usually I post the dumb shit I do. I don't think I can top this today.)

Joke, affectionate gesture, racial salutation? At least call a time out to pick one story. Me think they went pee-pee in their own Coke.

Comments?

Gametic Deficiencies

2008-08-11T14:13:00.007-06:00

I got to see much of my family this weekend, which was nice because it reminded me of what an educated, intelligent, clever, creative clan I come from. I think the world of them, and feel confident that they are proud of me.

For the Record

2008-08-11T13:37:00.005-06:00

It should be noted that I started this blog on April 2 of this 2008th year of our Lord. And while I've been called many things, including foolish, I was careful to begin posting AFTER April Fool's Day, so that you would know that the content herein is no joke... it's all true.

Recently, I have had people read certain excerpts, then call me up and question the credibility of what I wrote -- which is very upsetting. INFIDELS! Therefore, to mitigate any uncertainty out there that all the events described herein are true, I am making this simple, humorless post today and permanently removing my phone number from the site.

I am, however, leaving my address up. If you wish to question the validity of any content herein, I encourage you to come to my home instead. Please knock, because the doorbell's been dodgy lately. I will answer and either invite you in to discuss your concerns over coffee or tea, or whack you over the nose with a rolled up newspaper. (It could go either way.)

Thank you,
Monster

Partly Cloudy with a Chance for Truth

2008-07-31T09:41:00.005-06:00

I don't often post quotes, but lately have felt like I needed something uplifting, something stable and true to hold onto... a reminder that when I feel down or when I feel like I'm seeing the world askew, it's still my world and it is what I know -- and no one, NO ONE can take away what I feel in my heart. It can't be reasoned away, it can't be called wrong, it can't be called untimely and it cannot be restrained by anyone but me. Maybe you will like this quote as much as I:

"Remember above all things, Kid, that to write is not difficult, not painful, that it comes out of you with ease, that you can whip up a little tale in no time, that when you are sincere about it, that when you want to impress a truth, it is not difficult, not painful, but easy, graceful, full of smooth power, as if you were a writing machine with a store of literature that is boundless, enormous, endless, and rich. For it is true; this is so. Do not forget it in your gloomier moments. Make your stuff warm, drive it home American-wise, don't mind critics, don't mind the stuffy academic theses of scholars, they don't know what they're talking about, they're way off the track, they're cold; you're warm, you're redhot, you can write all day, you know what you know..."
-- Jack Kerouac

Say It Ain't So

2008-07-30T16:33:00.007-06:00

Meanwhile, back in Innanet dating land...

I opened my Match.com email for a bit of a shock. The letter read: "Hey. Look, I don't think this is working out. I just don't see us clicking. You're a great guy and all. Sorry I didn't let you know sooner. --Lisa."

Well, that's just GREAT. Dumped via email.

I promptly wrote back: "Lisa, I don't know what to say. I can't believe you'd end it... like... like this, after all we've been through. I should have seen this coming. I mean, you've been so... distant. I know I'll be able to move on eventually, and one day I'll get over you, but first: WHO ARE YOU?"

I had no idea who Lisa was. I pulled up her profile from her user name, examined all her photos and was at a complete loss. I'd never talked to her. True, I was having minimal luck with Match.com and going through a dry spell. Statistics showed that for every woman there was 8 guys. (Apparently, 7 better looking guys than yours truly.) But honestly, to get dumped by a girl I'd never met... That's gotta be like rock-bottom.

No Good Comes of Smoking

2008-07-30T13:55:00.004-06:00

So, I go to get a pack of smokes a minute ago -- because, Hi: I'm flawed -- and walk toward the convenience store door at the same time an adorable little rosy-cheeked girl of about seven years approaches it. She looks up at me with big blue eyes and reaches up for the handle, then, using all her body weight, pulls the door open and holds it for me.

"Aw, thank you sweetie," I said, completely surprised by thoughtfullness in a child during an age when I thought all manners had been lost. I imagined she was hurrying in to get some apple juice or, perhaps if she was lucky, a sweet treat with money from her mother who was pumping gas during all this. I remembered the excitement of having some of Dad's change in my pocket and being given carte blanche to get a candy bar or a comic book or perhaps some little trinket from the store. So, of course, I added, "But you go right ahead, dear."

She just stared at me, straining to keep the door open.

So I added, "Ladies first, you know."

"But I'm just a girl. I'm not a lady."

"Well, heh-heh, then you're a little lady."

Her face was reddening as she pulled against the weight of the door, and I could feel the heat from the asphalt on my own face. It's about 100 degrees outside. Yet, she didn't move. So I arched my arm toward the top of the door and held it as well, offering her a chance to scurry in under me. She remained.

"See, it's good manners for me to allow you in first, because that's what men do for women. It's gentlemanly."

"But you're old and my mom told me to hold the door for old people."

You little shit... "I'm not ol-- listen, kid: that's ageist."

"What's ayjis?"

"You. You're being ageist. Now, you have certain privileges you can enjoy as a young lady, and having a man hold the door for you is one of them."

She scrunched her chubby face, "What is it when girls aren't treated the same as boys?"

"That's called sexist."

She thought about it for a second and then yelled across the parking lot, "Mom! What's sexis?"

The officer explained to me some of the parameters of "verbal harassment of a minor," I think is what he called it...

Womens is Cray-zay

2008-07-30T12:25:00.007-06:00

When I found myself single for the first time in 13 years, I realized something: I had forgotten how to meet women. I'm not sure I ever knew how. All the Janes I'd loved before had pursued me. So, after bolstering my courage with eight single malt scotches (each with a solitary spring water ice cube, because I'm not, like, a barbarian or anything) I decided it was time to get "out there" again. Putting my best foot forward, I tripped and fell into the door jamb and decided maybe it would be safer to try to meet someone online instead. My buddy, Travis, had met his wife online... surely I could at least procure a date.

A quick summary of some memorable but not-so-pleasurable experiences from my first round of Innanet dating include, but are not limited to:

Two women that both found it perfectly normal to call me at 1:30 in the morning for psychoanalysis (both of whom I'd had only one date with... bizarre, huh?);
One date that had us meet at a drag show for a very surreal first date;
Two women that wanted my babies after one date;
A gal suffering from such delusional paranoia that she became convinced after our first date that I was only going out with her to sleep with her roommate -- her roommate that she had in college ten years prior in a different state and that I'd never seen, no less;
One woman that posted a photo from seven years prior claiming that, even after childbirth, the passing of the nineties, and the addition of 50 pounds she felt she looked "exactly the same as when the photo was taken";
One woman that found herself incredibly sexually attracted to me to only later discover that I reminded her exactly of her brother (eesh!);
And one of my favorites: a woman that showed up an hour late for my homecooked meal, drank the entire bottle of wine, talked the entire way through the rented movie, insisted on imparting an unsolicited two-hour long monologue about her dysfunctional past, freaked out claiming my bathroom turned her lips purple (see Purple Lips post) and bit my big toe twice before being asked to leave.

And then there were some seriously scary dates.

Ladies, if you're out there: thank you for the memories, I hope you're getting the help you deserve, and I owe you a debt of gratitude -- had I not fled from you screaming into the night like a hunted man, I would not have met Jane.

No Jane, No Pain

2008-07-30T11:37:00.005-06:00

There seems to be some confusion about Jane. All of my (significant) exes are named Jane. It's a strange coincidence, I know. And, oddly, there's my current relationship with Jane A. Malgum. I'm sorry for any confusion this has caused. To me it just seems wrong to make up a fake name for each ex. The idea rankles my journalistic integrity. Additionally, I think my credibility would suffer if I started telling you about my life with Swamp Witch, Bitch Goddess, Soul Sucking Vampiress from Hell, etc. Therefore, in an effort to clarify from here on out, I will try to remember to refer to each Jane with her designated Roman numeral, assigned according to their chronological appearance in, pestiferous persistence of morally objectionable antics during, and subsequent eviscerating disappearance from my life.

This, of course, does not apply to Jane.

My apologies for the confusion.

Suddenly Single

2008-07-30T10:59:00.002-06:00

After I broke up with Jane II, I started going to the tanning salon. It helped color my blanched, tear-stained cheeks. I had to pay careful attention as to when to quit, so I didn't turn orange. You can always tell the careless suddenly-singles on the scene from their solar-white/blue bleached teeth, orange fake-bake complexion, and hair color from a bottle. They're also easily found in the health clubs, blubbering shamelessly while pumping iron.

The largest faction of singles are of course grouped on a Friday or Saturday night at a selection of clubs specially designed for them. But again, the fresh singles are easily differentiated from the pack: They are the ones at the beginning of the evening who enter the joint grinning widely and looking like they found the promised land, while the end of the evening finds them either shocked at their solitude or sh#tfaced.

I’ve noticed that pockets of damaged humans can also be spotted at Barnes & Noble in the self-help section, hunched and poring over some book like "Do I Have to Give Up Meat to be Loved by You?", "Single Again -- Stopping the Insanity", "I'm OK, You're OK, but I'm Lying -- You're Not OK", or "Loving Yourself -- Looks Like You'll Have To Now". They have a perpetually confused look on their face, as if asking the world where they went wrong. You can tell how freshly single they are from the grace of their smile. (I'm still working on mine.) Newly floundering singles, such as I was, smile crazy-like, as though they just dropped acid, drank a pot of coffee and ate a lemon. This is likely a breakup reaction developed by nature to protect others from this person, much as the pine tree emits terpines to keep cute and loveable woodland creatures from nibbling its cones.

Fresh singles rarely get their cones nibbled.

I'm Batman!

2008-07-30T08:27:00.004-06:00

Last night I'm working in the yard (as usual) and it occured to me, I'm Batman!

I sweat weird.

Could be the rolls of fat beneath. More like Fatman. Kinda the same, only without the cool car and kickin' trust fund. But if crime runs rampant in Denver City, I shall spring (read: roll) to action, armed with my trusty hoe (not Jane) and squash the evil-doings of each nefarious villain by... ummm.... well... sitting on them.

Granted, it's no Shroud of Turin.

You'll Never Believe What Happened

2008-07-25T13:40:00.002-06:00

The other day I was--- no. Wait. That wasn't me.

The Preemption of Ninja Boy

2008-07-25T12:20:00.004-06:00

Jane got me throwing stars, and I finally put up a target in my garage. I'd forgotten how much fun they were. I had them as a kid, and hid them in the tiny hollow under my nightstand. I had homemade nunchakus that I also had to hide from my parents. It was kinda hard to hide the bruises though. Never did get very good with those. Fortunately I had the foresight to make them out of hard rubber, so none of the injuries were traumatic. Just embarassing.

And of course the necessity of my owning a katana or any other sword was completely lost on my parents. They didn't even like the idea of me having a bokken. They viewed it as something else I could swing around in the house, at my brother, and invariably through a lamp or vase.

They had no compassion for my burning desire to grow up to be a ninja. My mom wouldn't even make me a ninja costume for Halloween 'cause she knew eventually one night she'd open the door to my room to find an empty bed, an open window and -- in her mind -- a twisted pile of costumed ten year old boy on the grass two stories below. Consequently, I blame her for all the crime in my hometown. How can I fight crime without a ninja costume? How do you stalk evildoers in corduroys and bright red Chuck Taylors? Who'd be intimidated by a ninja in a colorful rugby shirt? She would have the news on while making dinner and with every broadcast of a missing child or hijacking -- or especially a holdup -- I would mutter under my breath, "See what you've done, Mother?"

Looking back, it's pretty silly to have wanted to be a ninja when I grow up.

Spiderman's so much cooler.

Cut the Cord, Kid.

2008-07-25T11:46:00.002-06:00

I think that historically irony has been lost on preschoolers and that ridicule taught at an early age will help those children become the taunters rather than the taunted by the time junior high rolls around. There aren’t enough thick-skinned five year olds, in my opinion. I know that every time I take the time to share my thoughts with one, he or she ends up in needless tears.

“Look, Susie, I’m sorry – I know your mother still dresses you. I’m merely ‘encouraging’ you to reconsider those shoes with that dress -- maybe question her judgment every now and then. It’s called ‘critical thinking’, sweetie, and you have to learn it sometime. Just because she’s ‘Mommy’ doesn’t mean she knows what she’s doing, OK?”

Or maybe people just shouldn't bring their children into work if they don't want them to talk to me.

Sheesh.

It's My Birthday

2008-07-24T11:54:00.001-06:00

It's my birthday today. I wish I could come up with something witty and wise to say after having been alive for so long... 35 years. But I'm not nearly as creaky and saged as some of my 40 year old associates. So, I'll turn to them for wisdom. They'll probably tell me not to call them 40.

All I can think is that 35 years ago today, I was born during prime-time on a Thursday night. Today is Thursday. My ever creeping varied literary devices tell me that I'm running a high risk of dying today... full circle... Thursday to Thursday... 3 and 5 being prime numbers...

But I must shrug that off if I'm going to have a good time. I'd like to have a couple drinks and get out on my motorcycle for a bit. That should ease the angst.

Outfoxed by a Rabbit

2008-07-23T10:43:00.000-06:00

Last night, on my ga-gillionth trip to Home Depot this summer, it occurred to me that I've done this all wrong. I had asked a floor clerk for grass patch to try to heal the portions of my lawn that I'd razed in ripping out my gardens last week, and he directed me to it. I'd only walked by it four times, so I didn't feel entirely stupid. There, at his feet was a small rabbit. I pointed to it and he sighed, "Yeah. We've got rabbits."
"That's so cool."

"Not really. There's feces everywhere. We've called Terminix to deal with them."

"You're going to kill Thumper?"

His face drooped, "Sir, you don't understand. They break into the bags of seed and then we have to mark them down to sell them because they're partially empt--"

"How much?"

"Sir?"

"How much do you mark them down?"

"At least half price."

"Awesome. I'll take those open ones there."

He loaded them into my cart. "It's just not good for business."

"Are you kidding? It's great! I'm the customer. I should know."

"But we're losing money."

"The customer is always right. You'd better not kill Thumper. In the meantime, why don't you stop storing seed on the floor?"

And I did see rabbits throughout the garden aisles, poking their heads out, then venturing up to the nearest pallate for a snack. Must be nice to live in your grocery store, fellas. Then it occurred to me: instead of buying a home and going to Home Depot every other hour, I should have moved into a Home Depot. I mean, they have all the supplies I need, plus the personnel that knows how to use them. Clever bunnies.

"Sir, these bags of seed are open," said Britney at the register. "Would you like to grab some different ones instead?"

"Nope. These are fine. Half-price, right?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to get the manager. Are you sure you don't--"

"Yeah, just call the manager."

A few moments later, a mustached gentleman in his mid-forties approached. "Aw, I see the rabbits have been at it again."

"Yes. Yes they have. Half-price, right?"

He nodded solemnly to Britney and she scanned them, then marked them down. I couldn't help but notice a typo on the manager's name tag, "Llloyd."

"Excuse me, but your name tag has three L's in it."

"Yes?"

"Yes." I paused and he stared at me, wondering what my point was. So I elaborated, "Yes. Three."

"Yes sir, I know. That's how I spell it."

"Oh, I've just never seen three L's in Lloyd before."

"Who's Lloyd?"

"You're Lloyd. Or Llloyd..."

"My name is Frank, sir."

"But your tag says Llloyd."

"That's just how it's spelled."

I swiped my credit card and then Britney shrieked and grabbed Ffrank's arm. She turned to me and announced, "Mr. Blair: this is your ga-gillionth trip to Home Depot!"

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Ffrank double-checked her information on the screen. "It's true, sir. You've been here a ga-gillion times now."

"So, does that get me some kind of discount or something?"

They stared at each other and Ffrank turned to me, "Well, no. Not really. It's just that we've never had a ga-gillionth customer before."

"So, no discount?"

I could tell that Ffrank felt it unfair of Home Depot to not be prepared to honor such an event. He took me out front of the store and bought me a bratwurst and a soda from the hot dog vendor, but I had to pay for the chips.

True story.

Well, mostly the part about the rabbits.

Grabby Versnatchen

2008-05-13T14:05:00.000-06:00

Grabby Versnatchen was a curious girl
With long golden hair
That hung down in curls
And the prettiest bright eyes
You ever could find
But these were nothing compared
To her bright, curious mind

One day in the woods
While walking from school
She found a strange fruit
Atop a toadstool

“Why, this fruit is new!
The strangest I’ve seen -
It has little red hairs
And flowers of green.
It looks quite delicious,
What harm could it bring
To try a new fruit
Like this odd little thing?”

But her mother had warned her
Many a time
“Don’t try new fruits -
Beware what you find!
For some fruits are good
And some fruits are bad,
You’d better just stick
To the fruits that you’ve had.”

This didn’t make sense
To Grabby’s curious mind
“Why should I leave
This new fruit behind?
What harm could it do
To have just a taste?
To not try new things
Could be such a waste.”

So Grabby ignored
Her mother’s advice
And tried the new fruit
And then tried it twice
It was really unlike
Any fruit that she’d had
“How could Mother say
That new fruits are bad?”

The next day she decided
To walk through the woods
And find just as many
New fruits as she could

She found fruits colored orange
And yellow and green
And violet and purple
And aquamarine

She picked through the bushes
And plucked from the trees
Taking as many
fruits as she pleased

“This one is pink!
I’ll drink it, I think.
And this one is blue
It’ll go fine in a stew.”

Each fruit was new
And different and fun
And she vowed to try every
Fruit under the sun

She put them in soups
In salads and teas
Some she cooked up
And some she did freeze

Grabby Versnatchen
Tried all the fruits that she could
She tried far more fruits
Than any one person should

The blue ones were good
But they made her arms grow too short
And long tufts of hair
Sprouted out of a wart

The reds were so rich
And tasty and sweet
She didn’t even notice
They put hair on her feet

The pinks made her happy
(That never did fail)
But who could have guessed
They’d give her a tail?

And when she had found
Every fruit she could find
Boredom crept in
And dulled her bright mind

Her friends had grown up
And moved far away
While Grabby grew old
And shabby and gray

You see, discovering new fruits
Consumed all of her days
Especially when prepared
In so many ways

With each fruit there came
An unexpected result
That caught up with her
As an adult:

Her lungs started wheezing
She had quite a cough
Her eyes had filmed over
And her fingers fell off

Her nose grew thick
And hairy and wide
And in bushy nostrils
Birds did reside

Her teeth they dropped out
One at a time
And I shudder to tell you
About her bright mind

Grabby went crazy
I guess was the case
But you would go too
If your mirror had THAT face!

One thing’s for sure,
She was a curious sort
With eyes that did glow
And a snout that did snort

Grabby Versnatchen
Ignored one simple truth:
Do what you want
But beware of strange fruits.

Lungs Like Lima Beans

2008-05-05T15:19:00.000-06:00

In an ongoing effort to lose weight, I went hiking yesterday in the Boulder Flatirons -- a series of large jagged rocks that just out from the the foothills of the Rockies in Boulder, named supposedly by Colorado's pioneer women who noticed a strong resemblance between the rocks' shapes and the irons they used to press their clothes. (Gosh, I miss those pioneer women.)

This week's painful realization: aerobic and anaerobic fitness are two wholly separate issues. Apparently, I have lungs the size of lima beans. I had to make more stops along the way than I cared to, but I eventually made it all the way up the trail. It was disconcerting to see groups of septagenarians (or greater) come stepping down the trail every ten minutes. The last old fella I saw paused alongside the trail to let me ascend beyond him. He spoke in a kindly, gentle voice saying, "You're almost there, sonny," then, smiled and added, "Not that it's worth it."

To tell another hiker that they're almost there can in fact be a thoughtful thinkg to say, especially when they look like they'd just been passed through the bowels of a rhinocerous. We all have that reserve fuel takn that can only be tapped with Hope. A promising statement, some words of encouragement is just the singular mortal act that it takes to persevere when one cannot see an end in sight. For that crusty ol' dude to add, "not that it's worth it," took a lot away from me -- more than my last short breaths, but my spirit as well. I grabbed his ankle and yanked it out from under him, laughing as he tumbled bloodily down through the trees.

Well, not really. But the gratification of thinking about it fueled me for the rest of the way up.

When I got to the summit, I was determined that the veiw before me was going to be worth it, no matter what. I'm not sure if it was, but I pretended like it was, gasping and oohing and ahhing to the point where the other hikers came to stand by me to see what I was looking at. After looking about themselves, they eventually asked me if I was in need of an albuterol inhaler, or perhaps just general medical attention.

The scenery wasn't too bad, though. There was a beautiful view of a natural formation called the Royal Arch -- a big rock doughnut that gazes over southern Boulder like a hollow eye. Passing through, one can look back northward at the Flatirons, and feel as though they could pass through this odd, stony picture frame into a great heavenly rock garden. The Third Flatiron, foremost in the painting, was being conquered by climbers with ropes. Most were wearing helmets, which I assumed weren't stuffed with silver hair as mine would be. Some poor chap fell over 100 feet this weekend off that Flatiron. Perhaps he was rapelling down and passed another climber, pausing long enough to say, "Just another few feet, man, but take your time -- the view's kinda crappy up there," right before saying, "Hey man, watch that knife -- you almost cut my-----iiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

The trail back was oddly longer than the one up, and had a curious number of uphill portions. I found this particularly strange, since it was the same trail. On one steep ascent, I happened to catch up witht the mean old geezer that tried to crush my spirit near the Arch. He never heard me coming -- surprising, since I was wheezing like one of Bob's favorite dog squeeze toys by that point. The trail mercifully widened enought to two-man's width, or the width of one wasting old guy and one sweaty fat guy. I drew upon everything I had, even tapping into all the bottled childhood rage I could muster, reeled that old fart in and dusted past him, loosing what rocks I could above him with an insincere, "Sorry ole timer." I kept going for another ten yards around the next bend, then ducked behind a large rock for a satisfying vomit.

At least I showed him.

I hope he slipped in my Powerbar puke puddle.

I sure miss my billy goat days when I could bound up such trails with ease -- a Marlboro in one hoof and a flask of whiskey in the other. Yesterday, at the pinnacle, I did particularly miss the companionship of my old vices, and suffered a small bout of alveoli envy. Formerly, it was always a ritual for me to summit, take a shot off my flask and enjoy a smoke at the top of the world. Instead, now, I stood at the top, hands on my knees, my arced posture trying to smother the fire in my lungs, bloodshot eyes watching my sweat droplets coat the ground and some very confused ants. "Hey, Frank, I thought it wasn't supposed to rain today."
"Cripes, Jack, what's that smell?"

When the mezzotint of oxygen deprivation left my vision, I paused and thought, "Now what?"
Now you go back down. Wasn't that fun, Sysiphus?

Hello, I'm Stupid. I'll Be Your Waiter This Evening.

2008-05-03T11:12:00.000-06:00

Hacienda Colorado is apparently an equal opportunity employer, but favors the young and retarded. In an inexplicable bout of planning ahead, I called to make dinner reservations for tomorrow night.

"Hacienda Colorado, this is Jeff with a 'G'."
Why do I need to know this? "I'd like to make a reservation, please."
"Uh, yeah? For when?"
"For--"
"Not for tonight!" Geoff interrupted, aghast at my audacity.
"What?"
"You're not trying to make a reservation for tonight are you?"
"No."
"Oh. Well, for when?"
Don't kill him. He's not worth it. No one would miss him, but don't kill him... "For tomorrow night," I replied, calmly.
"Oo-kaaaaay," he said slowly, voicing his growing irritation with my ignorance of the reservation process, "What time?"
"Six."
Geoff sighed and persevered, "For - how - many - people?"
Well, maybe kill him just a little. "Two."
"Yeah -- we don't take reservations."
What the fuck was the point of all that, then?! "Then does it matter when I wanted to come in?"
"Yeah -- we'll probably be busy around 6. That's dinner." Really? What a coincidence. "Call us about an hour ahead and we'll put you on the list," he sloughed. "Then you'll probably have to wait about 20 minutes or more when you get here, but you get to do most of your waiting from home," he touted as though he'd just imparted some brilliant new strategy in restaurant management.

"So you don't take reservations, but you'll put me on the list if I call in around 5 to eat at 6, and then I get to come in and wait at least 20 minutes anyway?"
"Uhh, yeah."
"Say G-eoff, why can't you just put me on the list now?"
"Uhhhhh..." I could hear his brain cells' popping, effervescent demise while he pondered this, "Uhh... 'cause you have to call tomorrow, an hour ahead?"
"Why?"
"...'Cause we have to put you on the list."
"An hour ahead, right," I assured him.
"Right."
"Thanks. Say, G-eoff, are you working tomorrow night?"
"Uhh... yeah."
"Good. Good-bye."

Please Leave a Message

2008-05-03T10:50:00.000-06:00

When the phone rings unexpectedly after 10 p.m., I automatically assume that either someone died or is about to die -- lying in a ditch somewhere, moaning softly and praying that his good friend Brian will be able to find and return his body to his loved ones in a timely fashion.

The whole "in a ditch" was my grandfather's doing. He worried about everything. If someone was late to supper, it meant they had some horrific accident and were left, "lying in a ditch". I'm not sure why lying in a ditch is much worse than, say, lying in the bushes, or lying on the sidewalk or in a bathtub. I guess I always imagined that they might be face down in that ditch, gurgling in a stream of murky water, but that's probably because I grew up in the northeast where all ditches worth their depth eventually filled with water.

Jane's response is, "Who the hell would be calling at this hour?" This is a valid response, and we explore the possibilities of who's likely drunk, stranded, kidnapped, being stalked, etc., until the phone stops ringing.

So, when the phone rings well into the night I grow very concerned about my friends and family. Not concerned enough to pick up the call, mind you.

To whomever called last night at midnight, I'm sorry. I generally provide salvation weekdays before 10 p.m. and by 11 p.m. on Fridays and Saturdays. Please make a note of it.

How to Make a Tweeterfod

2008-05-03T10:17:00.000-06:00

Brearbits slope toward groft valleys
plunked amongst the peeper plots,
filling with the shimmery drippings
of a moon that glomes on felten hills.
With sliven tongues and fuzzy fellies
starry winks tickle the popperpinks
as the Snicklebots and Brearbits click on
in swelling softlure, until the keepers of the Clackwick
can take the kerang no more
and open the gates to the Bomigods
in and “ooh” and “ah” and a rush of wet.

The Bomigods grow thinner ‘til
from the slide of one felten hill
a solingle Clackwick slips into the groftiest spot
‘neath a twisting thranch, in the thickest peeper plot.

Just beyond the wetten huffaluff
it sets and grovulates
until ready to thring itself at the Great Thooden Door
(of Bulmuffuh)
and then a Clackwick it is no more
but rather a tiny Tweeterfod
thrung forth from Clackwick pod.

So you see, it is neither the Brearbits nor the fuzzy fellies
(that have been known to twitter from Snicklebot jelly),
nor is it the starry winks or popperpinks
(although they give us pause to think),
but maybe the mystic kerang and glome
on felten hills where Bomigods roam,
and settle into velvet sod
to infiltrate the Clackwick’s pod,
progenerating a Tweeterfod
from a rush of wet,
before a nod.

Ode to El Borrico

2008-05-03T10:05:00.000-06:00

Jane and I went for Mexican food last night. I never tire of it, but it never seems to live up to my loving, time-honored favorite:

Mmmm.... #1: El Borrico, w/shredded chicken. House
Marguarita -- no salt.
BIG glass o' water. Yes, yes: the hour of my
digestive undoing draws
near. Yet, I embrace this culinary dissolution.
What spectacle! Take me
down to depths of cheesy debauchery and bury me

'neath a shredded iceberg
knoll. Scald my wicked flesh with salsa and top me
with a solitary lima
bean. O gassy rapture! This destiny I can no
longer deny.

To the celestial, and my colon's idol, the most
beautified Borrico---
Doubt thou mine ass shoots fire,
Doubt my tortured bowels to move;
Doubt that I'm over-tired,
But never doubt my love.
O dear Borrico, I am ill in my adjustable chair. I
find no comfort in
pancakes, no solace in Kettle Krisps.
There is no glee in pastrami -- never to compare to
my love for thee.
O perfection with picante, my unholy love for you.
Thine evermore, you Spanish goddess-whore,
tender sloppy burrito,
so long as my loving jaw doth move…

Note: to be found only at Benny's Cantina, 7th & Grant, Denver, CO. http://www.bennysrestaurant.com/

Purple Lips

2008-05-03T09:38:00.000-06:00

It was February, 2002. I should've taken heed when Aneita invited me to a drag show for our first date, but the second date was worse. I invited her over to my place for dinner. She showed up an hour late. Bad.

But she brought a bottle of wine and a video. Good. I immediately served dinner and she proceeded to eat nothing. Bad. In the 40 minutes it took me to drink a half of a glass of the wine, she killed the bottle. Very bad.

We adjourned to the den to watch the video she'd brought (her favorite, her "this is the best movie ever made and I can't beieve you haven't seen it" video), Harold and Maude. She proceeded to talk the entire way through the movie -- setting up each scene before it happened and causing me to miss most of the dialogue. The credits rolled and she asked what I thought of the movie because, again, it's her favorite and she's seen it 11 times. I told her that it looked like I missed a pretty good movie. I took this opportunity to suggest putting on some music, but she grabbed my arm and said, "No, don't. We need to talk."

"We do?" It was our second date. What could we possibly NEED to talk about? For the following hour and 45 minutes she regaled me with a moderately dysfunctional life story, interrupting any dialogue that I tried to create. The last hour of her vinous monologue involved me staring at a chair across the room. I gave up on nodding, muttering affirmatively, or actually making any noises at all. I tried to give up on breathing. For something to do I held my breath for as long as I could, and counted Mississippi’s. It seemed to me that my underformed adolescent lungs had greater capacity. My brother and I would dive the twelve feet to the bottom of my grandfather’s pool, hold on to the drain to keep from floating up, and then jet to the surface just before blacking out. I’m pretty sure I could hold my breath for a minute and a half back then. Now, I was only making it to 39 seconds. My thoughts traveled to my ex, Jane, and I wondered if she had experienced any of this sort of tragedy prior to moving in with the man she would marry.

Aneita only stopped talking once to go to the bathroom. I stretched out on the couch and slung my arm over my face – the universal sign for Holy Shit I’m Tired and You Need to Go. The silence was wonderful. I would have loved to hear some Fabulous Thunderbirds, or some Faces, but my legs were melting into the couch, and sprinting to the stereo to preempt another hour of Aneita’s saga seemed a little too taxing. Maybe she’d take the hint? Maybe the haze of wine was lifting from her eyes by now and she’d be able to see how tired I am and then she’d—

“Iiiieeee!!!”
Scream?

Aneita burst through the bathroom door and stood over me, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at her face. "While I was in the bathroom my lips turned purple," she said, sort of accusatorily.

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was pretty sure it had to be the funniest thing I'd heard in years. "Think it might have something to do with the bottle of merlot you drank?"

"No. It's not the wine. That's never happened before. They turned purple in the bathroom. Just now."

"Aneita, they were purple when you went in there. It's from the merlot. They've been purple half the night."

She folded her arms and shook her blonde head defiantly, "No. Nuh-uh. Your bathroom turned my lips purple,” she frowned, and then pondered, “How weird."

"And your teeth? They turned purple in the bathroom just now?"

Aneita jaunted back to the mirror. "Oh my God! My teeth are purple too! This is so weird. What's causing this? What’s happening?"

I shrugged, "I don't know. I'll call a plumber in the morning." I flung myself dramatically across the couch, being sure to bury my face once more in the crook of my arm. Surely she would—

Remove my socks?

I peered out from under my arm. Aneita had slipped her bony butt between my feet and the end of the couch, and pulled off my right sock. I began to search for the words to address this, because “what the hell you loony bitch” seemed a bit harsh, but she immediately began massaging my bare foot, and shortly all willpower slipped away. Well, maybe just for a minute, but then she’s gotta go.

I began to relax. It felt good. I hadn’t had my feet rubbed in years, and the effect was so soothing, so comforting, so—

“IIIIEEOOWWW!!!”

This time it was me who screamed. I whipped my arm off my face just in time to catch her pulling my toes from her mouth. She began rubbing them vigorously, raised her eyebrows and shrugged, “What?”
“You bit my toes, that’s what!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brian,” she smiled and continued rubbing.
“I saw my toes coming out of your mouth, a split second after I felt your teeth clamp down on them. THAT’s what I’m talking about.”
She shrugged again like I was daft, but kept rubbing. It felt good – the rubbing, that is. The pain in my little bones subsided, and I decided to let her make it up to me through a really good foot massage. I’d been single and unsuccessful in the dating world for so long, who knew how long it might be before a woman would perform any body work on me, much less a foot rub that’s… hmm… kind of sensual, really. Sensual, and sort of—

“IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

I have no qualms in telling you that the scream that came out of my mouth was not the bellow of a man in pain, perhaps wounded in combat or while chopping down large trees, but rather the startled shriek of a six year old girl who's just seen a spider in her bed. I sat bolt upright, in a “V”, my nose only about a foot and a half away from Aneita's powerful jaws. This time she didn’t have time to remove my foot from her mouth, but smiled apologetically, baring the teeth that were still sunk into my petrified little piggies. I jerked my foot from her jaw and examined it. There would definitely be a bone bruise. I searched for the words to approach this with her and abruptly demanded, “What the fuck are you doing?”
She shrugged.
“That fucking hurt!”
“I’m just playing.”
“Yeah, well you play rough. That fucking hurt.”
“Didn’t if feel good at all?”
“Yes, until the part where you tried to EAT MY FOOT.” I sat up and yanked on my sock and shoes. She sprung on me, catching me off balance from the side, and momentarily pinning me to the couch. I maintained the look of a man in peril. She thrust her tongue into my mouth, and I had half the mind to give it a good chomp. Instead I bench pressed her off of me and, aware of the fury of a woman scorned, delicately said, “Look, Aneita, it’s late.” It was nearing one o’clock in the morning on a work night. I wanted her out of there two hours prior. Even if I had decided I’d like to sleep with her, I would have still wanted her out by midnight.

Since being single, I'd learned the joys of freestyle sleeping. Sometimes I would lay spread eagle across the bed, just to see if I can hang off all four corners at once, but most times I preferred to sleep at a diagonal, splitting the bed in two like a sliced grilled cheese sandwich. In fact, a grilled cheese sandwich sounded like a good idea. Sleeping sounded like a good idea. Everything sounded like a good idea with the exception of Aneita staying one moment longer.

I stood up, “It’s really late, and I have to be at work very early. And I have a proposal due. It’s for two million dollars. And it could cost me my job. I’m sure you understand.” I didn’t care if she understood. I grabbed her coat and hat and presented them to her. She looked confused. Perhaps later she’d look mad. I didn’t care. In moments I wouldn’t have to see it anyway.
“But, I need the—“
“Here’s your video.” I had it in my hand. “It was interesting. You’re… interesting.” She was still buttoning her coat and I had the storm door wide open, letting in a purging gush of icy night air. She stepped onto the porch, still confused, and looked at me for some reassurance. I smiled, “Well, goodnight,” and swung the door shut.

She forced her hand around the door for a moment and stammered, “Will, uh… will—“

“I’ll call you,” I nodded. She released the door and I waited the obligatory thirty seconds for her to get off the porch so I could shut the light out and block the memories.

Yeah, I’ll call you: I’ll call you Crazy Toe-Biting Bitch when I mention this to my friends.

But I was wrong. She was henceforth remembered as Purple Lips.

The 2004/2008 OATA TOYA Winners

2008-05-02T14:08:00.002-06:00

Two of the dumbest things I've ever heard out of any woman's mouth:

"Your truck gave me a sore throat."

"Your bathroom turned my lips purple."

Elaine and Aneita, I salute you and proudly present you (respectively) with the 2004 and 2008 Oral/Anal Transposition Award for Excellence in Talking Out Your Ass.

Of course there are stories behind these comments, but I invite any readers to try to comprehend a fathomable explanation for each. It can barely be done.

Nice Chest

2008-04-29T10:02:00.000-06:00

Last night I bought an axe and dandelion killer at Home Depot, where I began to approach a woman worker to find out what aisle they were in, but some old dude beat me to her, so I stood by and waited for him to finish with his questions. "Where are the something-or-others," he asked.

"Right down this aisle, halfway, on the left," she replied.

Then he looked at her body and casually remarked, "You have a nice chest."

She didn't bat an eye. I was appalled! Rather, she motioned behind her, and he went about his shopping, the dissolute old cad. Then she turned to me, "Can I help you?"

I wanted to say that I found his comment to be atrocious and that in all my years of customer service I've put up with a lot, but have never heard something so flagrantly disrespectful. Instead I asked for the strongest dandelion killer they had. She joked with me and asked if I wanted to kill the grass too, and I joked back, saying how I hated the dandelions bad enough to do it and, motioning with my axe, said maybe I could use this on them. She assisted me, and, while I tried not to look, I happened to notice that, hey, she really did have a nice chest. But I would never tell her that. Not even with the road to base compliments already paved.

Driving away in my truck it occured to me he asked her for an ice chest.

Giving Up Makes Her Gay

2008-04-29T09:24:00.000-06:00

I have a friend that is careening at light speed toward 40. Unlike her peers (and her jeers at men who break down at 40), she claims to enjoy it, saying that she doesn't have to try so hard anymore... "Not in a flannel-shirt-wearing-suddenly-a-dyke kind of way," though.

So, giving up makes women gay, huh? I guess I can see that: comfortable shoes, a sensible/easy maintenance haircut, abandonment of makeup and perhaps some shaving... maybe add a few pounds... you know, grab some cookie dough and just go butch.

I think it's the opposite with men. If we wanna be gay -- really, truly successfully gay -- first we have to get in shape. And not just a couple pushups and situps... like, stellar, toned, magazine cover airbrushed shape. And that means CARDIO out the yang. But it doesn't stop there. Next, we have to accept fashion into our lives. Not just learning to dress better, but knowing what's in style, what's out, what works, what doesn't, and I think there's a prerequisite for learning women's fashion too. At least the shoes. And speaking of shoes, I'm pretty sure part of the minimum standards for going gay requires knowing how to dance.

I'm way too lazy to ever be gay.

Eye, Germius

2008-04-25T12:42:00.001-06:00

My doctor said that my eye caught a cold.

My eye. A cold.

How the hell does an eye catch a cold? It's not like I have the sick and infirmed licking my eyeball. I didn't send my eyeball on a trans-Atlantic flight or into a classroom of sniffling third graders. "Well, did anyone sneeze into your eye recently," he asked.

No, doc'. I'm pretty sure I'd remember something like that.

"Am I contagious?"

"Don't worry," he said, "It's not like there's germs floating around outside your eyeball, you know."

I didn't know. But he knows me well enough to know where my mind was going.

Bloody transliteration feature

2008-04-25T12:41:00.001-06:00

Sorry about that.

सॉरी अबाउट this

2008-04-25T12:37:00.000-06:00

ब्लागस्पाट हस चोसें टू फोर्स मी टू राइट इन हिन्दी चरक्टेर्स, एंड वों'टी अल्लो मी टू दिसबले थे ट्रांस्लाते फुन्च्शन। सो, इफ यू कैन रीड हिन्दी, थें गूढ़ फॉर यू। पेर्सोनाल्ली, इ हवे नो फुच्किंग क्लुए वहत इ'वे जुस्त व्रित्तें.

Sgt. Slaughter

2008-04-21T10:45:00.000-06:00

OK: just checked out a health club by my house. I'm all like, "I just wanna see what the rates are for couples, and see if you have another club by my place of work."
He's all, "Your fat. What does the price matter, Fatty?"
"Hey, that's not cool."
"Whatever, Fatty McFatterson. You wanna join, Jiggles, or what?"
"Do you know Crystal?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind."
"So what'll it be Lard-O?"
"How much for the weekly beratement?"
"That's free, Chubby."
"Do you have a club by my place of work?"
"Does it matter? I mean, c'mon, fatso, we both know that this is your way of making yourself feel like you're doing something about that monstrous landmass that is your ass--"
"That's uncalled for."
"Whatever. What're you gonna do about it?"
"I'll write a scathing letter."
"Oooh."
"Look: if there's a club by my place of work, that'd work better for me, 'cause when I come home I'm too tired to do much of anything."
"Think it has anything to do with that baby seal you're carrying around under your shirt?"
"Dude--"
"That seal is eating your heart. EATING YOUR HEART."
"You're insane."
"You're fat."
"Oh, good one. I think we covered that."
"Hey, know what can cover your ass?"
"What."
"Probably nothing."
"Nice haircut, Sgt. Slaughter."
"Do you iron your pants in the driveway?"
"I'm going now."
"I could tell by the earth tremors and the way you blotted out the sun."
"You're a dick."
"You're fat."
...

"So, $49.95 a month?"
"Yeah, sign here."

Who's Gym?

2008-04-21T10:34:00.000-06:00

"Brian, why don't you just join my gym," Jane asked, trying not to implore.
She could have asked when I wasn't naked. "I've been working out," I said as I reached down to pull up my pants.
"Oh."
"Oh what?"
"No. I see. Wait-- yes: I see!"
"What?" I remained doubled-over, fiddling with my sock.
"I think I see a six-pack," she nodded.
"Really?" I stood up, excited, and proudly turned to face her.
"Oops. It's gone," she shook her head, "Must have been rolls of skin."
Grrr. "There's muscle there!"
"Yes, dear. And it's a big one. Hee-heeee..."

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'

2008-04-21T10:10:00.000-06:00

Jane has a crush on a t.v. character. It's cute, really, but also kinda weird 'cause the guy totally looks like her brother. "What the hell is so cute about him?"
"Everything, really. Except maybe his chin. He doesn't have much of a--- What are you doing, Brian?"
"Nossing." I stuck my lower jaw out as far as it could go, perhaps just giving the appearance of a strange underbite.
"Oh, please. You have a chin."
Satisfied with her answer, I retracted my jaw and went back to watching the program.
Jane mumbled, "In fact, you have two."
"Hey," I recoiled, "I heard that."
"Well, when you pull your head back like that, you have six."

Mad Props

2008-04-21T09:58:00.000-06:00

I wanna give a shout out to www.innerstep.org for its insightfulness and quest toward everlasting supercharged intergalactic creaminess. Holla at ya theosophical cosmos gurrrl.

While my site is good for the repeated deprecation of varied existential dilemmas and the frailty of the mortal coil (or the expansion of, more appropriately), you should check that one out if you feel like your head's temporarily stuck up your yang.

'Nuff said.

Working Out

2008-04-20T09:14:00.000-06:00

Workouts: they're not the same as I remember them. But then, I don't remember ever really working out much until recently discovering I had accidentally become overweight. "Accidentally"... yeah, I kept slipping in the kitchen and falling face first into an ever-replenishing supply of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia. Every time I'd try to get up, I'd slip on the schmear of ice cream across the kitchen floor, SPLAT! Face-first into a bag of Cheetos. I was quite accident prone that way.

My whole life I'd been thin as a rail. I even took weight gainers: every kind of chocolate chalk or strawberry shit whey protein bomb you could imagine. I ate dough for breakfast. I ate steak and potatoes, bobbing in a tidal pool of butter. If it came in Crisco, I'd have thirds. I ate dough and drank the pie filling afterward. Then it was time for lunch.

Nothing ever phased my physique.

Suddenly it was like hitting a wall: my metabolism crumpled into a comatose heap virtually on my birthday. Six months later, I was moderately misshapen. Now I have to SERIOUSLY work out. Before, I'd just do a sit-up or a pushup and be like, "Yeah, I remember how to do them."

And when you get older, workouts change. Or at least the pain does. It shifts. There seems to be a 48 hour delay on the soreness. I think for the first 24 hours your body is like, "What the fuck, man?" It's just an assessment period, a period of shock. Then, two days later, when the damage has been fully analyzed, the affected muscles retaliate: first by becoming listless and useless, like rebellious two year olds being dragged across the floor of a Target: "No. No no no no no. I don't want to." They refuse to cooperate, and when my brain pulls rank on them they begrudgingly function after issuing one provision: We're going to cause you great pain. It may last for hours, or it may last for days, but for what you've done to us you can be sure of one thing -- we are going to cause you great pain.

Fresh Pot

2008-04-20T08:24:00.000-06:00

It's Sunday morning and that usually means one key thing with me: unlimited coffee. Not that I drink a lot of coffee -- I don't. I'll drink a couple cups, but half goes cold before I'm done, so it requires refill. This is a luxury I do not have at work.

I mean, what kind of self-absorbed bastard takes the last cup of coffee without making a fresh pot? I thought there was an unwritten rule among office coffee drinkers – don’t leave less than a decent-sized cup in the pot without making a fresh pot. Yet I have to deal with the shmucks that think it’s OK to stroll into the kitchen, empty a whole pot into their Starbucks coffee vat, and dart back out as though having coffee provided for them is their God-given right.

I have my eye on a couple of the accounting folk who obviously have misconceptions about their working environment. There are one or two (and I’m not naming names here) that swoop in and grab the last cup, and then flee, leaving behind nothing but coffee splotches, a cloud of non-dairy creamer dust and about enough coffee to fill a shot glass. And she magically appears, looking like a human water balloon in clothing that’s supposed to fit loosely on someone – not her – with her coffee and cream skin straining against taught poly-blends, allowing a sometimes unfortunate elliptical view of a crumb-laden undershirt peering out between open near-bursting seams, held fast only by the unearthly gumption of supernaturally strong buttons.

Oh, yes: she’s the first in line with her lurking, quiet-and-comfortable-though-horribly-unstylish rubber-soled shoes of unnamable Play-Doh color, to make some brilliant, pithy comment like, "Fresh pot," or, “Hi Brian. Making coffee, heh-heh?”

Yes, I’m making coffee you oversized lurker bitch. You know why? Because low-brow, Philistine bastards like you tend to bump their way through life without a hint of regard for those around them. Bump-bump you go – stumbling through your egocentric existence until another selfish fuck with a truck brings it to a mercifully quick close in the middle of Self-Center Street. Then you float over your bloated corpse at your funeral – for which you stuck the only remaining moron that cared about you with the bill – and you float... all floaty and incredibly unusually light, thinking, “Why is there no one here? Why didn’t anyone come to my funeral… boo-hoo… Why didn’t people like me… sob-sob…?” It’s because you never made a fresh pot, bitch. It’s because taking the last cup was your way of life. So you think about that while you freeze in hell in the blackened indifference of God and those you thought HAD to love you, you bungling ignoramous, and,
“Yes. It’s a fresh pot.”

___________________________

IMAGE COURTESY OF http://www.goobeetsa.com/. CHECK HIM OUT ON BLOGSPOT, TOO -- ANOTHER TWISTED BRIAN!

Coyotes

2008-04-15T08:22:00.000-06:00

I woke at 4:01 a.m. to coyotes howling, and the subsequent barking of all the neighborhood dogs. All but mine. Bob doesn't bark.

But I wonder if he gets nervous about coyotes. I'll have to remember to ask him.

I don't normally get nervous about coyotes... but one of them sounded like a werewolf. And that makes me nervous, 'cause if werewolves exist then vampires probably do too.

Not that I'm scared of vampires. I just don't want one to be turned into one before I get back into shape. I'd hate to spend eternity this fat.

Baking Contest

2008-04-15T06:37:00.000-06:00

Last night, well, an hour ago, I dreamed that I was buttering a slice of fresh baked bread to submit in a baking contest. I turned around to cut one more slice to add, and Jane took a big bite out of the first one. "What're you doing?"
She laughed.
"It's not funny."
"Oh no," she teased, "The whole morning is ruined!"
"I have to submit that," I whined.
"So, I only took a bite."
"You have chicken pox." She did.
"Oh. Well, big deal. Relax."

WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?

Let's Redesign Wyoming

2008-04-14T14:37:00.000-06:00

Excuse me, good people of Wyoming: Due to your inability to make significant contributions to urban America, and in part because of your penchant for watery beer and sheep (often in some dreadful combination), we are going to have to ask you to pack your pickup trucks and head north to Canada or south to Mexico. We’d ask you to stay, but we’d like the value of the land to increase. Further, in the interim, we’ll be paving your former state to make room Woolly World – the world’s largest theme park and the only theme park ever dedicated to the memory of the livestock you’ve defiled. We've just finished designing such exciting rides as Lusty Lambykins, Screw Ewe, and our wildest ride yet: The Raunchy Ram. For the few of you that we will allow to remain behind we have both rodeo clown and maintenance jobs available for you in 2010 at the completion of the park design. Please try to stay out of the way of the construction crew. Thank you.

For the Recorder

2008-04-14T14:36:00.000-06:00

The recorder: the cheapest instrument a parent can buy. Also, the lamest. It almost ended my musical career before it began.

My parents didn’t like my leanings toward pop and rock music when I was a wee lad. To get me to focus on my academics, and to further discourage me from a musical lifestyle, they made a pretense of support by purchasing a recorder and enrolling me in recorder lessons.

That mamby-pamby baroque clarinet-like plastic tooting device was a chastity belt for my adolescent life. I wish my parents had been more musically inclined, so that it could have been cultivated in the home, as opposed to driven from it. Just because I didn’t like recorder lessons didn’t mean that I didn’t want to try something else, you know? I just didn’t think that playing "When the Saints Go Marching In" over and over again was of any use to me later in life.

High school boys are plagued by a variety of ailments, but by far, the worst, is their virginity. And that bloody plastic tooter was a padlock on mine. I whined for a real instrument, a sexy instrument, an instrument that would make all the girls lose their minds and their pants, in no particular order. Since I couldn’t sing, and since everyone else in the world played guitar, it was inevitable that I settled on drums.

Boulder Girls

2008-04-14T14:34:00.000-06:00

I can always tell when a girl from Boulder is flirting with me, by how she casually flips and playfully twirls her armpit hair during conversation.

Allegravating Dream

2008-04-14T14:29:00.001-06:00

I took an allergy pill last night. Allegra, I think.

All night long, I dreamed of sheets flapping in high wind.

All
night
long.

I've never awoken so bored.

I probably shouldn't have a dream log. It's not really working out thus far.

Who Wants to Live Forever?

2008-04-13T11:01:00.000-06:00

We fear everything in America. It’s the fault of the media, pharmaceutical companies, doctors, government leaders, and worst of all – it’s our own fault, because we’re a consumer society full of consumers that are hooked on consumption, and most of us will buy whatever they’re selling.

For example, what’s the most benign substance you can think of? What’s the most plentiful, simple, and crucial resource in our twitchy, throbbing carbon-based lives? It’s water. You know what I used to do as a kid when I was thirsty and wanted a glass of water? I’d go to the sink and pour a glass out of the tap. But some time ago some marketing genius in Pepsico or Coca-Cola company decided to market bottled water.

The worst part is that I don’t blame the marketing minds that first decided to dip a plastic bottle into a cool mountain stream just brimming with deer and elk pee, scoop up 12 ounces and try to sell it like prime mountain real estate. I blame the first shmoo that decided to buy it – but mostly if he or she had kids. Because we’re responsible for setting a good example for our kids. And now half of them are afraid to drink our water anymore. Billions of dollars are spent nationwide each year to recycle this most precious resource, and clean it through advanced chlorination, radiation and distillation processes. Aren’t we cleaning it enough? Now we have to have our individual hermetically sealed bottles of Evian and Aquafina and we carry them around like sippie cups.
"Oh, I have to stay hydrated."

Drink more water, they’ve been saying for years. And now it’s not just the latest AMA observation that maybe water is important to life – no, it’s a full-on marketing campaign, with catchy yet slightly terrifying slogans like "Water for Life." Drink it or die. What’s wrong? Constipation? Oh, you should drink more water. What’s that? A brain tumor? Have you been drinking enough water? Oh… your leg’s off? Drink more water.

Now doctors are saying that some of us are drinking too much water and it’s flushing the vitamins and minerals from our system before we’ve had a chance to process them. Good! I’m glad. Not only is the quest for better health making us sicker, it’s rotting our teeth. That’s right: since 1945 fluoride has been injected into the water supply of major American cities. By 1992, nearly 60% of Americans were drinking fluoridated water. Good for us. However, by 2004, only a dozen years later, the production and sale of bottled water reached 6.8 billion gallons in America. That’s an estimated consumption level of 23.8 gallons per person. So now all those kiddies sucking on their triple-distilled or mountain spring water are getting cavities in their orthodontically corrected and bleached smiles.

I think that’s FUNNY!

Americans can be sold on anything. We’re so gullible, and the more rich you are and the more trendy you fashion yourself, the more gullible you are my friend. Who remembers a little joint in swank downtown Denver called the Oxygen Bar? That’s right: thousands of twenty- and thirty-somethings got all dressed up and drove their Beemers without signaling to be among the MENSA masses that decided it was brilliant to pay the price of a single malt scotch to huff off of a tube of air. A tube of air! But not just any air: flavored air. (I got some flavored air for you.) You know what I did at the oxygen bar? I bellied up to the bar, whipped out a Camel cigarette and a slightly dampened pack of matches and started trying to strike up a little more than a conversation. But that’s me.

We’re the number one world superpower, yet our citizens belie a nation on crutches. We have too much money and too much access to too many products. We take a pill for every ailment. "I take my St. Johnswort when I need a lift." "Oh, well I take ginseng." "I take melatonin to help me sleep." "Well, I take kava kava root in my tea." "Well I take…"

Blah! SHUTUP!

We’ve become a nation of Elvises. One pill makes you go up, one makes you go down. Don’t like what you see in the Looking Glass? Take another pill, Alice.

What’s the common theme? We want to live forever and be happy. Cripes, I want to be happy, but not all the time. At times I think I’m pro-tragedy. You need some ugliness in your life to recognize the beauty. When I sit in a Starbucks with my adult sippie cup and see these sixteen year old princes and princesses roll up in their brand new Mercedes that daddy or mommy bought them I have to wonder what they know about struggling and difficulty and the human condition. (Which is why I jump them in the bathroom and take their I-Pod. It’s because I care. I’m merely assisting their growth process.)

And who wants to live forever? Well, maybe Mercedes wants to live forever. But personally I’d like to think that there’s an end to washing the dishes and taking out the trash – ending with someone spinning a twist tie over my head and dropping me in the proper repository. I get tired of situps and shaving and cooking and cleaning. Sometimes I don’t even want to chew. Better living through pharmaceuticals isn’t my way. And there’s always a trade-off.

Our bodies were designed by our DNA so intricately, so perfectly that anything we throw into the mix is unnecessary. It’s unnecessary, and we’re doing it more and more, trying to micromanage the most natural process on earth: the cycle of life and death. They should stop advertising medications on television. I think it’s tantamount to advertising cigarettes. Our nation is hooked on shortcuts and snake oils. "Ooh, I have a stuffy nose. I’d better get a prescription." "Oh no, I’m up five pounds -- I’d better buy some diet pills." "I don’t feel great... I wonder what’s wrong with me?"

GOT THAT GENERAL MALAISE FEELING? TRY GUAIFECES! TIRED OF FEELING TIRED? SLEEPING TOO LONG? SLEEPING TOO LITTLE? DO YOU FIND YOURSELF EATING AT RESTAURANTS AND SHIVERING WHEN YOU STEP OUT OF THE SHOWER? DOES ALCOHOL MAKE YOU DIZZY? DO YOU MISPLACE OR LOSE YOUR DRESS SOCKS ON A REGULAR BASIS? TRY GUAIFECES! DOES SMOKING MAKE YOU COUGH? DO BEANS GIVE YOU GAS? DOES YOUR CHEWING GUM GO STALE ON THE BEDPOST OVERNIGHT? ASK YOUR DOCTOR IF GUAIFECES IS RIGHT FOR YOU, AND START LIVING THE GOOD LIFE AGAIN!

(Side-effects may include dizziness, dry mouth, irritability, sleeplessness, migraine headaches, minor bloodclots, seizures, anal leakage, sexual dysfunction -- including but not limited to impotence or permanent, irreversible erection. In less than 75% of case studies, brain tumors were noted, as were inexplicable and often public homoerotic behavior. Less than 63.47% experienced suicide. Guaifeces is not for use in combination with MAO inhibitors, proteins, starches, grains, water or milk. More than 1.29567% of our case studies experienced swelling of the reproductive glands, and less than 56.3409% experienced mild leprosy that directly attacked the reproductive organs. Do not use Guaifeces if you drink alcohol. Do not use Guaifeces if you are sexually active. Do not use Guaifeces if you are Christian. Only one study resulted in the full-term gestation and birth of the anti-christ.)

GUAIFECES: THERE’S A BETTER WAY TO LIVE!

Pharmaceutical companies and the media have made cowards and hypochondriacs out of the majority of our nation. This is why I bought a motorcycle: to enjoy life from moment to moment, and allow the chance for it to end quickly and not by my own hands. I can’t handle the guilt associated with poisoning myself to save myself. If I took a medication to save my pancreas and in turn gave myself high blood pressure and a heart attack, I couldn’t handle it. I don’t want to be pissed off at myself for some sickly slow suicide. I’d rather be pissed at some frappacino sipping, cell-phone blabbing soccer mom that didn’t bother to look or signal before careening into the left lane and smearing me across eighty feet of asphalt. That’s fine. I’ll come back as her newest spoiled brat and make her life a living hell of late nights and rock music and motorcycles just like the one she smashed sixteen years prior – and I’ll do it all over again.

’Cause I’m probably always gonna be pissed at something or someone, and that’s alright: it helps me get things done. I rather enjoy life, when it’s on my terms. Because when it’s not on your terms, then you’re a prisoner. I think we were put on this world to love and procreate and do things we dig. If you lose those freedoms, or worse – if you give them up in the name of extending your life, then you’re simply lengthening a life sentence of mediocrity spiraling into a self-imposed hell, until there’s nothing left of you but a pair of cloudy eyes, an erratically thumping heart and a soft brain that can’t remember what it was put there for in the first place.

That’s what I think.

The Rules

2008-04-13T10:55:00.000-06:00

Bachelorhood: Perhaps I am living a lie. Maybe on the inside I am mourning its loss, while outwardly I maintain that I am still not married. “Oh, you’re married,” they say. Love that. I’ve been with Jane longer than most marriages last. Sure, it gets strained at times, but I’m trying to look on the bright side. As a man, there are certain privileges to being in a relationship. Smaller advantages include emotional support after “battle” or “loss.” Battle includes work. Loss includes an unfavorable outcome in a broadcast sports game or at the poker table. Larger advantages include the tax break you may get for being of the married condition. The really big advantages, the ones no one told me about are the crossover secrets. For example, I have a potpourri connection. You see, men can’t buy potpourri or quality scented candles in the store without risking injury. Cashiers keep small batons (something like Tazers or cattle prods) underneath the counter. If we’re suspect heterosexuals caught buying potpourri or scented candles, the cashier is allowed to stun us into submission. Upon the second offense, we may be taken into the back room and pistol-whipped. God help you if you like Cottenelle’s scented pastels. You know what men are allowed to buy? Glade – stankin’ urinal cake in a box. Pretty much any air freshener we are allowed to have must either be one generation removed from a urinal cake, must require electrical outlets to operate, or must be in a spray can labeled “disinfectant.” Bet you never knew that. It’s true. The same principles and punishments apply to other household accoutrements: flowers & vases, soap you can see through, children… all the stuff we’re not allowed to have without you, the woman.

Another thing we can’t have without you: Mistresses.

By nature, men are polygamous. Women are monogamous. Women must rule this society, since monogamous relationships terminating in marriage are still the standard. It’s unfair. Women want their men to change before they’ve even met them. Relationships form on the premise that they will either end unfavorably, or end in marriage. Unfavorably or unfavorably, from the male perspective. I can’t help it if I want to sleep with every woman I’m attracted to. I don’t do it, though. Why? Because women made the rules of this society. Yet, men are still, by a hair, the figureheads. Puppets, really. Women have made us to feel like uncivilized wretches that would sleep in our own excrement if not for them. Basically, women have won the battle of the sexes – over, by the time it started. No matter what the average successful man does in his youth, sooner or later some woman is going to tie him down and fuck him up. The only guys that haven’t lost the battle of the sexes have switched sides. They must be the double agents. Sure, some heterosexual men may attest that they prefer monogamy.

Check their closets – probably full of gay porn.

You know how women feel about shopping? About fudge? About pampering themselves? Yeah, that’s how guys feel about sex with multiple partners. It’s a validating, enjoyable experience, and we’d rather be doing it ALL THE TIME.

I’m willing to concede that the majority of divorces are caused by men, or at least initiated in some form by men. You see, men have to repress their alpha male urges to sow their seed throughout the land. Eve gave us the apple, and we became Johnny freakin’ Appleseed. Repressed, this bottled polygamist tendency manifests itself in other, ugly behaviors. We might become too critical, we may become slovenly, we may start to drink or eat too much, we may turn to team sports and violence or a combination of any or all of these. We develop little habits that annoy the hell out of you as a gender. You tell your girlfriends, “I never knew he _____,” or, “He didn’t _________ when we were dating.” We didn’t ________ before we dated you, either. It’s all behavior that materialized in some form during the course of the second date, when it looked like there’d be even more dates. From the first moment it appeared the relationship would be moving forward (read: after sex), we subconsciously sabotage it. So, just as you thought, “it” is our fault – whatever “it” is (‘cause frankly we weren’t listening). “It” is always our fault.

So, you’re right, and you win.

I am, of course, totally kidding.

That said, I’m going out, and I’ll be back when I get back, OK?

I mean, if that’s alright with you, dear.

Hedging Bets

2008-04-13T10:54:00.000-06:00

I have to say there is a God. Formerly, after nine years of Catholic schooling, I was stuck with this image of a stately old gentleman with long flowing silver hair and a beard, a bright white gown of sorts, maybe a staff, definitely a throne… you know, your basic King James illustrated version of God. Now I don’t know. Maybe he looks like me. Definitely has the silver hair thing going on. But I have to say there is a God. I’m covering my bets, I guess. I mean, what if I go through life saying there isn’t a God, then I die, and there IS a God? He’s not gonna appreciate my former stance too much. Imagine all the atheists that are just gonna be fucked if they’re wrong.

On Track for Death

2008-04-13T10:51:00.000-06:00

Jane just called me. She just got off the phone with her friend, Joanna, who is dating a permanent bachelor – much like Jane would describe me. So, in essence, Jane just finished discussing marriage to me with herself. Joanna feels as many women (Jane) do: marriage is a must, so that they, as a couple can move forward with their lives.

“Forward,” I asked, “To where?” When I started dating Jane so many years ago, all our friends (marrying off like flies) kept asking, “When are you getting engaged?” Then, it was, “When are you going to get married?” Next, it’ll be, “When are you having kids?”

“Hey, I have a question for you. Now that you’re married with children, when are you going to die?”

Moving forward, bah. Marriage is the end of the line. Dating stalls death. It’s like working yourself out of a job, I think.

Wanderlust

2008-04-13T10:48:00.000-06:00

I listened to a guy named Lyle sing about riding his pony on his boat. I think I know what he means… it has something to do with portable satisfaction, perhaps presented as a romantic longing to ride off into the sunset. I’ve been oppressed by rain and snow and blowing winds that don’t whisk me off toward a balmy horizon, and mostly by my traitorous metabolism. A sunny beach on Costa Rica could be symbolic of happiness for me, but mostly, happiness is currently symbolized by an unattainable 32” waist. Sometimes I feel so far removed from happiness that I don’t even know in what form it comes anymore.

Dissatisfaction stirs many things within me. It’s not all bad, as it can drive me to do better. But when I get better, it’s still there. Sometimes dissatisfaction comes to me as wanderlust. I get it in my head that I have to leave, that I’ve taken a horrible wrong turn somewhere. How did I wind up with this creaky mortgage and a leaky car with a fiancé and a rickety pickety fence? When did I ever want any of this? How can I go on night after night, not learning what it is to sleep in the Mexican rain with the mountain night air thick and green around me? What are the grits like in Georgia? I could do dishes to pay for my breakfast. I want to have coffee in Seattle with strangers and tell them all about my pen-pal friends I never met, and when they leave, pick up a book and not read it, but listen instead to the lapping of waves outside, as they wash away any memory of where it is that I wanted to go next. Then I could hitch down to Malibu and spend a day in the sand and at sunset kiss a girl that I would remember for her scent of coconut on her skin and her silky golden hair that draped over bronzed shoulders. Maybe later I could backtrack to Alaska and kill a wolf in the blinding snow. I want to spear fish on the sun-baked beach of an island that can only be pronounced in its native language, then dance around the fire before sleeping under a million stars. I want to earn my voyage through Indonesia as a crewman aboard a 30-foot fishing skiff. I want to drive my motorcycle through the Rocky Mountains from Durango, CO to Banff, Canada. I want to go bass fishing in the land of 1,000 lakes and chase the dawn from North Dakota, where I’d work for a week as a ranch hand. I want to meet my brother for hush puppies and a beer down in the Carolinas, rent a car to Florida, and sail to Jamaica where I’d climb a waterfall and drink something potent from half a coconut. I’d burn everything buy my boots and favorite jeans, then leave for Arizona and spend a week backpacking in the Superstition Mountains, looking for gold. I’d hitchhike to New Mexico and buy a beater bike for two weeks’ wages as a line cook and take off through the desert, up the Western Slope of the Rockies, then sit on top of the continental Divide, facing the sunrise, trying to decide if I should slide back down into Denver. Maybe instead of returning, I’d go west to L.A. and hook up with a struggling band in need of a drummer. I could drop them for a Chicago-based blues band and drop on down to Mississippi to explore some of those blues roots. Then, almost ready to return, I’d remember that I’ve never had a fresh Maine lobster. As long as I’m in Maine, I could stay until Indian summer and ride with some trucker back to my hometown in NY for a slice of pizza at Tony’s and a dish of gnocchi at Cortese. I’d live with my stepmother for a month and pick up odd jobs to get airfare and then, maybe then, I could get married under the summer evergreens and start a family.

Basically, I’m continually trying to keep from flipping out and driving across the country. Sometimes it just seems so appealing to load up my backpack, throw a leg over the bike and split. I think of the places I could see, the people I’d meet. Sometimes I’d just like to drift into a little town in the middle of nowhere and get caught-up with some blue-eyed enchantress fresh out of college, sit in with a couple of local musicians, maybe work a few days in a factory there, or sweep some floors, serve some drinks, sleep in a tent, maybe fish a day or two and lose myself under the shifted stars that blanket me in my whirlwind, my spiraling submission to fate. In one town I’d have long hair and a beard. In the next I’d be clean cut. I could drift for a year, and just write every morning and every night, keeping a journal of my new life… start over.

But I have Jane, and this job. Maybe I’ve already done my drifting. Someday when I get a few weeks vacation in a row, I’m gonna pack one bag and hit the road. I’m gonna drive from coast to coast and just freak out on all the cats I’ll meet and do things I’ve never heard of and just be every moment, living each for what they are, and then that summer night’s breeze will remind me of that night in Texas and Hey, doesn’t she look like that wild girl from Idaho, and wouldn’t it be cool to go back to Oregon sometime and try ALL the beers?

This could be a crisis.

Yes, it’s feeling like a crisis.

Foray into Children's Books

2008-04-13T10:46:00.000-06:00

I may take a crack at writing children’s books. My brother told me that the last piece I wrote was “too dark” for kids. Yet, he reads them Grimm’s Fairy Tales, stories of monsters and evil magic. So, I’ll give it another shot. Let me know which, for the parents out there, is a more appealing title/subject matter:

“Every Locked Cabinet Has a Key”
“Sometimes ‘No’ Means ‘Later’”
“Smoking Made Johnny Cool”
“The Brother or Sister You Almost Had”
“Don’t Play with Uncle Chester”
…and, my personal favorite,
“Booze is Where Babies Come From”

Non-dreams

2008-04-12T21:36:00.000-06:00

3 a.m.

I woke up last night... yesterday morning? Cannot be late for work. A drink of water. 3:31 a.m. Go to sleep, damn you. Stop pressuring me. Go to sleep. Believe me, I want to.

For the next 3 hours I tried to sleep. Yet, I dreamed of trying to sleep... for three hours. This was my dream.

My dream log sucks.

Don't read my dream log.

Walkabout

2008-04-12T12:50:00.000-06:00

I was out walking downtown last night. Apparently, I'm a bad person because I don't have a cell phone.

Jane said she'd meet me at Gov's Pub, then buy me dinner at Benny's Cantina, which is cool, because if I order a healthy meal like chicken and rice with beans and lettuce and tomatoes and someone in the kitchen decides to smother it with cheese and green chili, it's not my fault.

But I didn't get my accidentally delicious meal. I went to Gov's, no Jane. There were two guys checking I.D.'s at the front door, so I reached for my wallet. He just closed his eyes, wrinkled his nose and shook his head as if to say, "Don't bother, mister." I went to Benny's, no Jane. I went to her office, Jane's car; I knocked on her office door, nobody. I went back to Gov's, and the other security guy just waved me in, without looking at my I.D. Still, no Jane inside. I walked back to Benny's and all these people were like "Weren't you just here?" Yeah, I wanted to hang out with the pretty people, but you're still here. Maybe if I come back in another fifteen minutes?

I went to Rathschild's bar. The guy at the door said, "Hey man, look, I'm supposed to check ID's, but clearly you're old enough." I started to walk past him and he stammered, "It's just that it's my job. Do you have an ID?"
I pulled out my wallet and held it up without opening it, "Yes."
"OK man. Cool."

An elderly waitress approached me. "I've had a really bad day," I started.
"You look like you could use a healthy shot of Jagermeister," she offered, which was funny because healthy and Jagermeister are two words I'd never heard together. She came back with an overpour. "Listen," I asked, "Not to sound insecure, and I'm gonna tip you 20% no matter what you say, but do I look old to you?"
"Oh, honey, no. You're a good looking man, such a healthy glow to your cheeks, too."
"Thanks." I felt stupid for asking.
"Hey, look," she leaned in closer, "I'd date you and I don't typically date older men."
"Older? Than what?"
"I'm only 39," she winked, as though she'd made my day.

I left and walked to Armida's where Jane sometimes goes to watch a coworker of hers sing karaoke. He always sings Maggie May. A few doors prior I encountered a homeless woman. I pulled a buck's worth of change from my pocket, "I don't have much," I offered. "Oh, thank you sir." After a two minute tour of Armida's and, as you guessed, no Jane, I left, passing the woman once again. She hit me up, "Young man, could you spare any money? I'm just trying to get a hotel room for the--"
"Ma'am, I just gave you money two minutes ago."
"Oh," she nodded, "Sorry. Sometimes it's hard to remember. I think it's the alcohol."
You think? Honestly, I couldn't believe she admitted that after taking my money. I mean, isn't there a code among panhandlers that they're supposed to make us think like they're not using it for drugs and alcohol? I don't know what I think they're going to do, maybe use the extra cash to leverage a strategic takeover of an occupied refrigerator box or something... I just don't want to know that they're using it for booze. That's what I could have used it for, damnit.

Why not just anonymously buy the city a round of drinks?

RealitV

2008-04-12T12:13:00.000-06:00

I have the hugest T.V. The on button is the size of a door knob. It blows high-def away in terms of clarity, but it only gets two channels, the Nature Channel and one I call the People Channel.

It's way too big for my place. I keep it outside.

I have a smaller one inside. It gets one channel and one show: Lifetime. The plot's thin, and it's lacking in character development.

Beats nothin', I guess.

Cows

2008-04-10T13:43:00.000-06:00

I'm so sick of salad. I've eaten more salads this past week than I have in the past year.

That's three now.

I used to like cows. Cows were always cool, standing around, eating grass. I would think, "Man, I admire you, Miss Cow. You are so cool. You make cream, and butter and cheese, and just basically hang out. I would like to bring you home and introduce you to my friend, Mr. Baked Potato."

Now I can't drive past a green field of grazing cows without thinking, "Steak salad."

And that's depressing.

Partly because the fork required would be way too big for me to hold.

Freakin' Frondescence

2008-04-10T13:09:00.000-06:00

That was one fucked-up lunch today. This whole "eating healthy" nonsense has gotta go. I am lucky enough to have Jane occasionally make my lunch, and when she so chooses, she can be an excellent cook. Her sense of sensible ingredients for a healthy a dish is surpassed only by what I suppose to be underlying sadistic nature involving ritual beatings and mutilation of small animals. I jest. She loves small animals, and sometimes feeds them to me. But I'm starting to get the feeling that she's trying to tell me something. Granted, I may not be the svelte god I was only last year, but that's no reason to poison me. I mean, the only potential carb in that whole lunch bag was a super single bed of cous-cous. What the hell kind of food is cous-cous? You have to eat like a thousand to realize you've eaten any. She gave me a fork, and those little dust speck cous-cous bastards kept rolling right off between the tongs.

She told me last night that she picked some prepared lamb up from the market and was going to cook it for me and let me take it for lunch. I'm thinking, "Alright! Lamb Chop for lunch!" Yeah? Well, "have I got a story for you." Atop the bed of mushy pinheads was the motley contents of a lamb kabob - one lamb kabob; forty-thousand robust chunks of pepper and onion, each the size of Rhode Island, all gang-banging one defenseless little cube of lamb. To add insult to injury, the lamb had been repeatedly rolled in rosemary. I fucking hate rosemary. I mean, what kind of pine-needly bullshit is rosemary? If it's not getting stuck in my teeth, then it's lancing the back of my throat like a first year Guatemalan med student trying to perform a tonsilectomy with a knitting needle.

"Roughage," she says. Oh, it's rough alright. If I want that kind of roughage I'll finish the damned salad you packed for me.

I don't know what was up with that salad, but it was like trying to shove a juniper bush in my mouth. I stuck my fork in there and pulled out a rosebush or something. I didn't even have a knife to cut it with. She should have packed me a fork, a napkin, a machete and a weedwacker for that damned salad. Whatever happened to the days when a salad meant iceburg lettuce, carrots, an easily avoided tomato chunk, a buttload of croutons and parmesan cheese? Now I'm trying to choke down some kind of ground cover from the Black Forest. Next I'll be gnawing on roots and chasing it with a cup of dirt, "Minerals, don't you know." Can't I just have some fried chicken and a Flintstones chewable?

Fortunately, she hasn't found out about my affair. That's right, I'm getting some action on the side with a hot little number at work. It may be naughty, but she's got the best slot in the world. I know she puts out for others, but I'm pretty sure she saves Slot G for me. For only 55 cents I can get an ounce of Tato Skins anytime I like. Sometimes she likes to mix it up, get a little kinky, and she'll turn me onto some Cheese Nips instead.

It's good to inject a little variety into the routine.

King of the Beasts

2008-04-05T11:09:00.000-06:00

I didn't mean to give the wrong impression about Jane. We have a solid thing. A thick, heavy, solid thing. Well, she has me, anyway. And I believe she loves me, wholly, mind body and soul. It's just that I'm not sure she loves the extra 50 lbs. of Crisco I've injected into the body part since we met.

I may just be using food as a substitute for sleeping with multiple partners. At least that kind of juggling was a form of exercise I didn't mind.

If she dumps me, I don't know what I'll do. I'll totally have to get in shape, because the singles market is vicious, and those nightclubs... well, I don't know why they call them meat markets. If they truly were, then pound for pound, I'd be a helluva catch.

I suppose I could always travel to the more recessed portions of West Virginia and start my own game show: "Who Wants To Marry a Brian Blair?" First prize will be me and a canned ham. Runners-up will receive a week's supply of squeeze cheese. All contestants must be 16 years of age, stacked, and willing to bring a cute girlfriend on the honeymoon. That's just awful of me, isn't it? I am of course, kidding.

I would never give away my squeeze cheese.

With my addictive personality I guess I just have to find some happy mediums in my behavior. (Hmmm... "medium" was a long time ago. I may have to look for some happy extra larges.) The first time I quit smoking, I turned to excessive drinking. When I quit excessive drinking, I turned to compulsive shopping for compact discs. When I shook that habit I started compulsively buying albums. When I ran out of good music to buy, I turned to punk rock. When my punk rock collection neared completion, I became an eating machine. I knew I had a problem when I woke up, hung over, my Sex Pistols record skipping on the stereo and I automatically did my morning stretch to the nightstand for the aspirin -- but slathered them with mayonnaise first.

That was rock bottom. I resolved to abuse myself no more. Well, I still drink... and there's that private time in the bathroom... but no more Fatman! I returned to the store that sold me my sea of denim and bought running shoes.

I know I'm a jolly sort, lately, but that damned salesgirl didn't have to laugh all the way through the purchase.
"You find it humorous that I am buying running sneakers," I asked her.
"No sir. (Giggle-giggle) It's just that spandex went out of style, like, 20 years ago."
I signed for the purchase and collected my bag. "I'm not wearing spandex," I indignantly replied, "These are sweat pants." I huffed out of the store. I could hear the laughter well-up as I reached the door. Someone chuckled, "I've never seen cotton do THAT before."

I went home, put on my new sneakers and started my new exercise regime at 6 p.m., making sure to stretch real well before running. I finished my new exercise regime at 6:09 p.m., staggering back into my house, sucking wind. My lungs were on fire and I could feel each individual tooth vibrating in my head. I wobbled to the fridge on rubber legs and poured a water, steadying it with two shaking hands as I gulped it down, half the glass running down my neck, into my sweatshirt, cooling my heaving man boobs. The liquid's weight was too great for my weakened legs and they collapsed under me. So I traversed the room via the kitchen cabinet handles, monkey bar fashion, finishing the circuit at the liquor cabinet, where I poured one vodka for the pain, then one to forget.

There has to be an easier way. I mean, I'm pretty sure my strength is the same it ever was, but the load keeps getting heavier. Shouldn't this inherently have made me stronger? Speaking of loads, I was quite dismayed when I started jogging and realized that the persistent tugging motion I was feeling was the rise and fall of Abner as I staggered down the street like a wounded wildebeest. It wasn't nearly as interesting as watching a buxom jogger bounce by. At least if my breast were a little larger I would have kept running for the sheer entertainment value.

I can't believe all this flesh is mine. The up and down of the gut was really embarrassing, too -- not to mention a bit painful. With every crushing step into the pavement, the impact would jar my nards, causing them to bounce upward in time, as Abner was thrusting back down upon them. After one block I became the human Ker-Banger -- my stomach pile driving my testicles in sadistic rhythm. That was a lot of stress to put on my knees as well. At any moment I expected my shinbones to splinter, piercing through my knees in a spray of butter and gravy.

These new sneakers are clearly flawed.

So, I've done the running thing for the past week, but the pain didn't cease. It did, in fact, increase. It feels as though I'm driving my spine through my brain like a barbecue skewer through a cherry tomato. So I've taken to running at night, in the dark. The daytime finger pointing, staring and laughter was just too reminiscent of showering in the high school locker room after gym class.

Sometimes, when running at night, I've pretended I was a ninja, rapidly stalking my unsuspecting enemy. But the thunderous steps beneath my bull-like legs have ruined the fantasy, so now I pretend I'm a Tyrannosaurus Rex, crashing through prehistoric jungles rabidly in search of my next prey. What would I eat as a T-Rex? Hmm... Mozzarella sticks, chicken nuggets, baked potatoes with cheese, and two quarter pound burgers with everything. (T-Rex's don't eat junk food, lardass.) Shut up! I'm a T-Rex! I'll eat YOU!

Holly, Jolly, Jiggly

2008-04-04T09:30:00.001-06:00

I really am trying to lose weight. I used to think that it was solely up to me whether or not Jane and I got married, but now, as they say in poker, I have "no hand."

A friend told me something unnerving recently: She said that, even though I've gained much weight ("a preposterous amount of weight," I believe was her terminology), my disposition has been far cheerier than since she's known me. She put forth the suggestion that overeating may be making me happy. She also politely asked that I don't diet, because she actually enjoys being around me now. She is a kind, honest, straightforward person, so I took the words into careful consideration, tenderly wrapped my arm around her shoulder, gave a light squeeze, and told her to fuck off. I mean, the nerve! How could she be so calloused when I'm only days away from losing sight of my wee-wee when sitting.

Maybe she's right, though. I used to be pretty cranky. Now I'm just jiggly. Perhaps I've subconsciously decided to be Santa Claus this Christmas. Maybe I'm just destined to be a big, jolly fat guy! There's no shame in that, right? Everyone loves the jolly fat guy at the party. I can develop a hearty laugh, rosy cheeks and nose, and become a connoisseur of fine foods and wines. I'll throw fabulous parties for no reason and people will all want me at their holiday functions because I'll light up the room when I walk in and I'll always bring the best champagne. I'll dress humorously ostentatiously and say charming, witty things that make people feel good about themselves and life. I will tell fascinating tales of my travels abroad and of the faux pas of the upper crust with whom I hobnob. Men and women alike will hang on my every word and think of me as a lifelong friend only moments after they have made my acquaintance. Every party's success will be gauged by whether or not I attended. People will fly me to their estates for weekends of mimosas and croquet and everyone will think I'm some sort of Duke or Baron, though I will not have started the rumor. Baron von Blair. Hmm... has a nice ring to it, eh? Baron Bri. Big Bri, the Baron. Baron von Beefy...

And all I have to do is keep eating.

Turning Addictions into Superpowers

2008-04-04T08:45:00.000-06:00

Some people just have addictive personalities. For me it started with cigarettes, music, then drugs, women, alcohol, sex, drugs, rock n' roll... the American way. Your all-American Toxic Boy. Then, slowly, I quit. First, the drugs, then the cigarettes, then the rock n' roll (immediately followed by a cessation of dating multiple partners). Then I picked up Jane, then the cigarettes again. But I fully intend to quit. Cigarettes, not Jane. And then we'll get married and I'll be free of all the addictions, 'cause, well, bye-bye sex. Or so I'm told.

I'd better hang onto the alcohol for awhile.

These cigarettes, though, they're a bitch. Cigarettes, not Jane. I successfully quit for five years. I set up a rewards program: every week without a cigarette, I'd buy myself a new CD. Turned out to be every day. Now I have a small record shop in my basement.

But then the food addiction kicked-in, oh-so-subtly. I liked it better when I was solely addicted to buying music. Maybe I could get addicted to buying new pants. It's certainly easier than doing a situp. Or maybe I could be a fat-assed superhero, roaming the seedy city streets after dark. My super power could be my ability to inhale anything not nailed down within a 50-yard radius, and my special weapon could be a studded belt that launched a spray of metal spikes every time I squatted down. I could sit on my enemies and squeeze them into submission. In times of serious trouble, Max could release a noxious gas that seizes the nerve center of any living organizm within 100 feet. I could give myself a catchy superhero name, like "Fatman," and come up with a catchy phrase like, "Eat me, punk." And the only thing that could stop Fatman would be Brussel sprouts -- my kryptonite. I can work out the details later, I suppose.

Personal Growth

2008-04-03T15:25:00.000-06:00

It doesn't help that when I cook, I cook for a small army. I had my mom and stepfather over recently and made a five-course meal: cheese & crackers with dried fruit, shrimp cocktail, baked potato-cheese soup, lobster tail and NY strip steak with twice-baked potatoes that were each the size of a baby's head. We were so stuffed we couldn't even get to the blackberry cobbler and Haagen-Dasz. Well, they couldn't. It wasn't really my fault that I couldn't stop myself. I am rendered powerless by anything in a fruit glaze.

I used to be a dazzlingly handsome lad with an untamed sense of adventure and the physique of a Q-Tip. I never thought I'd get this big. It's been like one long cheese-filled nightmare. I'll never forget the awakening, either:

It was two days after that Sunday dinner that I discovered dimples in my legs. I was horrified. It was such an undeserved discovery. I was finishing off the last of the Marie Callendar's blackberry cobbler and Haagen-Dasz vanilla ice cream, laying on the couch, watching a DVD rental of my 5th favorite t.v. show, when I looked down at my left leg -- bent and pinned under my right one -- to wipe up a little ice cream that had dribbled off the side of my tray.

There they were: two indentations on the inside of my leg! It looked like a scar from a bad dog bite or something. I couldn't figure out for sure what these were, so I asked Jane. She told me its something fat people have.
"Oh my God," I shouted, "You're kidding. Tell me you're kidding!"
She rolled her eyes, amused at my panic, "Don't worry about it. Those aren't nearly as bad as the ones all over your ass."

I ran to the mirror, dropped my drawers and turned to see my profile. She was right. It looked as though I had suffered a series of shark attacks on my hindquarters. I orbited another quarter turn to try and get the full-on view. I had to put a second mirror next to the first. I took off my shirt and witnessed the full reality of my metamorphosis into the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I was so unnerved that I immediately developed hiccups, which fortunately kept me from polishing off Jane's portion of dessert. I went back to the living room with a glass of water to soothe the indigestion and continued hiccupping between small sobs. I jiggled and Jane began to giggle.
"What the hell are you--HICCUP!--laughing at?" I demanded.
"I'm sorry honey, it's just that when you do that--"
"HICCUP!"
"Hee-hee... when you do that it looks like someone adjusting the venetian blinds-- hee-hee-hee-heeee..."

Max

2008-04-03T14:25:00.000-06:00

But first, meet Abner.

Some people name their private parts (pee-pees, hoo-hoos, hooters, what-have-you). Me, I've named my gut and butt: Abner Dunlop and Max. Well, Maximillion, really, the fat bastard son of Glutius Maximus... but just Max for short -- like Madonna, or Cher, or Sting or Bono. My rump will be just as widely known one day. It's not really psychosis that brought me to naming them. I pretty much HAD to name them. It'd be like if you gave birth to Siamese twins and just called them Bob. In a way, it was like giving birth, only without all the blood and screaming. Maybe more like gestation. Granted, they're not even a year old, but they're already eating all my food and ruining my wardrobe. I had to buy all new jeans and slacks because my waist size has shot up 3". Further, my "old" jeans are permanently creased at the waistand, folded in half between the hips and the fly because Abner, my fleshy friend, has run rampant over what used to be a swimmer's waist. I guess it still is a swimmer's waist -- swimming in gelatinous undulations of lard.

Don't get me started on the sebaceous sea monster that is Max.

Still, God bless Cheetos. I've even taking to eating them with a fork. In the quantity I consume at one sitting, it takes two to three hand washings to get that orange crap off my fingers. And with the fork I at least look more dignified when sucking down my preservatives and nitrates.

It was those three waist sizes ago that I destroyed my absolute favorite pair of bluejeans. I squeezed into them, somewhat shocked that they had shrunk in my dresser drawer (a phenomenon I blissfully attributed to an unusually humid week), and when I bent over THE METAL BUTTON ON THE JEANS BROKE IN HALF! Half flew off my body, spiraling away with a warbling whizz like a bullet tumbling from an M16, and the other half remained jaggedly embedded in the denim.

I was shocked, stunned. It certainly was motivational for me, though. The next day, for the first time in about a year, I got off my butt, put on my sneakers, embraced a beautiful sunny day outside, and went straight back to the store to return those jeans for full credit.

Malaise Medley

2008-04-03T10:32:00.000-06:00

My lunch today (again): 1 can o' tuna, 8 water crackers, 1 spherical fruit-like substance, 1 lite Kraft cheese single, 6 oz. fat-free black cherry yogurt, 1 slice of wheat bread (for toasting), 75 fluid oz. spring water and unlimited servings of Louisianna Hot Sauce and crushed red pepper.

Mmmm... oh yeah. Delicious. There's nothing like canned fish to brighten the day. Unless it's that fruity thing I bit into that emptied a waterfall of juice onto my crotch. Now I'm stuck in my office until it dries, damnit.

The toaster's broken and there was a cherry stem in my crappy little 6 oz fat free yogurt -- my indulgence for the day. I'm seconds away from giving into Slot G. I hear the machine calling me. There be Tato Skins in there. I know there are: I watched intently as the vending machine guy load in each 1 oz. baggie of saturated perfection at 9:05 this morning. At least until he caught me staring.

He probably doesn't even truly know what a "pervert" is.

Shit. No cash. It's a shame to be surrounded by all these valuable office supplies and have no one to sell them to. Too bad: 55 cents for a Swingline stapler is a hell of a deal.

One of my coworkers always has money with her. She won't lend it to me though. I made the mistake of telling her that I went on a diet, and now every day its, "How's the diet going, Brian? How many pounds, Brian? Still goin' strong, Brian? Don't you miss fatty foods, Brian," to which I'd like to reply by pouncing on her meaty haunches, clawing my way up to the sausage rolls on the back of her neck and chewing one of the cheeks off her face.

I really don't want to cannibalize her... much. She means well -- which is exactly why she won't lend me 55 cents. I could throw her off by asking for five bucks or more, but it's conspicuously close to the lunch hour.

The water cooler is right outside her office. I refill my bottle on the way to the lunchroom, lunchbag in hand. Every damned time it's the same question, "How much weight have you lost now, Brian?" I immediately feel guilty because I know I'm on my way to stuff my face full of rice cakes or something similarily revolting, so I always tell her, "Lost another pound!"
"Great work, Brian!" Thanks to a primary education in the Colorado school system, her math skills leave something to be desired. By my calculations, I've lost a pound per day for the last six weeks, sometimes two pounds in a day if I keep bumping into her... a sum total that leaves me somewhere around the body weight of an eighth grade girl.
"How much weight have you lost now, Brian?"
"Well, I lost a pound in the staff meeting, and another pound while talking to you just now!"

My pants are dry. I should go.

Rapidly Rappelling Down from Physical Peak

2008-04-03T10:13:00.000-06:00

I used to be too skinny, now I'm too fat. When was I ever "just right?" Probably for the same 20 minutes in which I hit my sexual prime. I was probably cleaning the house or something, and Lo! I hit my optimum weight and sexual peak... swept away like dust off the baseboards.

J'ever notice that three out of the four letters in "diet" spell DIE? Something inherently wrong there. I try to stick to tuna, crackers, yogurt, assorted fish, popcorn and other tasteless treats sprayed with I Can't Believe It's Not Urine. That shit tastes like extract of crawfish or something... just not butter.

My waist isn't changing much, though. Disheartening. I complain that my arms and chest are getting smaller and my waist is staying the same, but Jane looks at my arms and says, "They're just more firm. You're getting cut, that's all." It's unnerving how she can look me straight-faced and lie like that. Makes me worry. Anyway, I know from cut. Cut means that the muscles are defined, casting shadows on the firm flesh below. I gotta step into my closet and turn off the light to cast a shadow on these arms.

I'm just achin' to get home and fix me a nice bowl of slightly brown mixed greens and watery tomatoes. Know what I mean?

Title

2008-04-02T16:42:00.000-06:00

I really wanted to write something creative here, but it's been a long day and my head is asleep. You know how when your leg goes to sleep and it feels like its a tube of sand? Like that. Plus, nothing really interesting happened to me today.

Well, I started a blog... but you knew that. And so far: hmmm... not so interesting.

I guess we have to just keep feeding the brain and hoping creativity will blossom. But we have to have a plan. Do you have a plan? Having a plan is paramount. My plan is to get a plan. But that's my plan -- you have to find your own, you plan-snatching bastards.

Praise for Afternoon Sessions

2008-04-02T13:31:00.000-06:00

Afternoon Sessions
B. Blair & the Jazz Thugs

I believe that what B. Blair has accomplished in the Jazz Thugs’ Afternoon Sessions will affect the whole character of jazz music profoundly and pervasively, but I am certain that this opinion is nowhere near as singular as the style and finesse attained in Afternoon Sessions.

Jazz today is suffering a malaise, a curtain of negativity which fresh artists -- commended for their attempts – have draped over the genre through atonal musings and cliché progressions. Blair has torn through this black barrier to deliver an ornate package of complexity, feeling and soul – truly meritorious for a suburban white boy. Brought to us under the influence of greats such as Davis, Parker, Coleman, Gillespie and Blakey, Blair is sculpting works of art upon a solid yet comparatively simple platform.

Beyond the Afternoon Sessions’ songs and the surge of emotion they elicit, one accomplishment rises above the rest: This music will make girls take off their panties. I don’t mean that figuratively. I mean that if you play this CD, any girls within listening range will remove their undergarments and begin to rub their legs together like lovesick crickets in heat. Says Blair,

“I got into music for one reason and one reason only: Sex. I was as surprised as everyone else when it turned out that I could play… For years I did the rock and roll thing, and it paid off. Hell, I’ve slept with more women than most men have ever seen. Now I feel it’s my turn to give something back, especially to all those guys whose girlfriends I shtupped. That’s what Sessions is all about: Sex. But not for me. I’ll just be there in the background, coming through your speakers, watching, smiling…”

This disc has been specifically designed as a sexual aid. The aphrodisiac quality of which Blair speaks truly comes through in tunes such as “Best if Used by THIS Date” and “Spank Me Harder Daddy”.

“I want you to get some. Just because you got the girl back to your place doesn’t mean you know what you’re doing. Let me help.”

Blair’s unique approach to modern music has often rewarded him with harsh criticism from feminists and bleeding heart liberals alike. Accused of repetitive objectification of women and the corruption of soft youthful morals, Blair continually offers his seasoned reply,
“So?”

Afternoon Sessions is sure to revive the fertility of jazz creation in the new millennium. Blair’s probing, thrusting and often sodomistic style of playing will awaken the senses of jazz critics and virgins alike. A lineage of back-of-the-tour-bus-hard-banging-rock, cunning funk and spiritual/existential jazz culminates in this one powerhouse album. Blair’s choice of accompaniment could not have been better calculated. Sensitivity, compassion and comfort are established with the adept musical foreplay of Jazz Thugs Tyler Newcastle and Lonely Boy, luring the listener into “Paper Trick” like Bo Peep into a dark wood after her lost lamb. Once inside, Bo Peep loses more than her lamb when the wolves in sheep’s clothing devour her in a tormented crescendo of wailing and moaning as Steve Swampfoot, Newcastle and Blair strip away every last sense of convention and dignity, leaving listeners so satisfied that they’ll be standing in line to wash and iron the Thugs’ khakis.

NOTE: This CD also works on gay men.

-- Cliff Stryker, Editor, National Jazz Review

Do-Over

2008-04-02T12:01:00.000-06:00

This blog (ugh, I hate the term "blog," it's just so... blog) is a place of happiness and light and creamy goodness and bunnies which frolic sometimes in fields of flowers. But there is no harp music. (I won't have it. It's gay, and not happy gay.) If you wish, envision harpsichord, which is more in accord with my personal taste.

This is a do-over. There's another place, a black blog which grows darker and darker and quite frankly gives me the creeps. Sure, I made it. Sometimes I give myself the creeps. So, we're gonna hang out over here instead, 'K? This place will be our happy place, our sanctuary to bibble-babble and play, our Shangrila-di-da. There will be much giggling, tittering, doodling and snotting of the nose. If possible, milk should pass through nostrils. Don't use root beer: it hurts.

This is a space built for my friend. It is adjacent to, under the same ownership as, and connected by an esplinade to the surprisingly affordable co-op that is my heart. Loud parties and wild behavior are encouraged.

Serious introspection is strictly prohibited. Any violators of this code will be hunted down, coated in something sticky and fed to the aforementioned Left Hand Black.

You got a problem with that?

I didn't think so.

Now, onward with the jocularity. March!