On any given night I just might bite a pillow. It is a sad fact that I still have nightmares about particularly cruel games of Musical Chairs. I bite hardest when the music has stopped and the whole world freezes, the faces of my peers caught in all stages of fear and apprehension. Eyes shift to the insufficient collection of chairs, the outstretched hands hoping to seize one of them. We are blind to what we are about to do to each other, too caught in the fear of being the last douche bag standing. Alone, without a chair. On Sunday night, moving well into Monday morning, during a rather emotional exchange I was accused of being "an emotional coward" (an “emotional coward” during an emotional conversation, paradox anyone?) and too "scared to listen to (my) feelings." And so we have A Memo Concerning: Animal Love, V Day, Face Lifts, and Douching.
It all begins during News Years Eve, usually after that third bottle of champagne when your totally rocking outfit has already begun to disintegrate into a disheveled walk of shame-esque jumpsuit. By this point Prince's "1999" has been played twice and you have begun experimenting with brand new, never before attempted dance moves that will surely leave muscles you never knew you even had a little sore the next morning. It becomes magnified as individuals begin to pair off randomly much like red rocketed dogs start humping at the park. What is this "it" I speak of? "It" is the realization that in fifteen minutes they will wheel out Dick Clark in typical "Weekend at Bernies" fashion and the clock will strike 12. This means that you have fourteen and a half minutes to catch the eye of a stranger, usually someone three notches lower on your standards scale, and box tonsils or else risk being that awkward douche bag who is just screaming while everyone else is sharing germs. The worst part of "it" though isn't those fourteen minutes, rather that after those minutes pass they are stretched out over an entire month before Valentines Day. The music plays and the music plays and we round the chairs and the behavior of full grown adults gets more and more bizarre, and then I get phone calls in the middle of the night.
For many years, and sometimes even now, I would spoon my dog at night, so dedicated to the animal that I would spray my bed with flea repellant. I come from a large family of dog lovers so this was not considered strange. There is an exception in one of my most passionate and loving brothers. I think it began several years ago when a puppy under his care died after it exercised some less than stellar judgment. From that moment forward I wonder if he has felt that dogs are not trustworthy enough to risk giving his affection to. Maybe he is cautious with his heart and afraid of going through the pain a dumbass animal could bring to him. Even as someone who dedicates a daily portion of his day to rampant adoration of My Crown Prince Champion of the World (my mother’s standard poodle) I understand where my brother is coming from. I will never forget the look on Siegfriend and Roy’s faces during their first public interviews after the tiger attack. Not because of their botox paralysis and intense nips and tucks that made it look like I was watching clay-mation, but rather how torn (pun intended?) they were over the fact that something they had spent their lives advocating and loving had suddenly turned on them. They were heartbroken. But what did they expect with a tiger right? What fucking douche bags.
For me, the most tragic part of heartbreak is not what we do to each other, but rather what we do to ourselves. We are probably the least qualified stewards of our own hearts. We betray ourselves-- refusing to see the ones we think we love for who they really are. Or, even worse, we try and convince ourselves that the person we love is someone that we really want, ignoring our own needs. Then we are somehow surprised when tigers bite. The fear of “it” drives us to this, drives us to kick our own asses, and then we get angry at ourselves for letting “it” all happen again. Jimi Hendrix sang that there was nothing more “Bold As Love.” These days I feel that there is nothing more courageous than saying no to feelings you know will hurt you. There is great courage in saying goodbye to someone, into moving on. Realizing that what may be best is being without someone is very bold. The fear of “it” is cowardly. Perhaps in some ways this makes me a coward; maybe I am afraid of my own feelings. I might just be the douchiest of bags.
In a couple of minutes the sun is going to come up. Blades of grass will turn to it, petals will open, and everything may change. I’m sorry if this isn’t the most entertaining memo you have read. I’m sleep deprived. Maybe today I will realize that everything I just wrote is complete bullshit. But I know one thing ladies and gentlemen, there are no chairs set out before us, the music will not stop playing, it keeps on going. There is nothing as bold as love, and there is nothing more bold as saying this is someone I cannot let myself love.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
A Memo Concerning: Falling in Public and Assholery.
Several years ago a friend brought to my attention a timeless, character defining dilemma. He had been walking to class through a nipple cracking frigid day at Ithaca College when the unsuspecting young lady in front of him dramatically slipped on a patch of ice and fell on her face. My friend suddenly found himself captured in a whirlwind of emotion and looked to those around him for some kind of direction. His eyes caught the stranger next to him and it quickly became evident that he too was caught in the same quandary. This friend later came to ask me, and I now attempt to answer for you all, in this situation who is the bigger asshole? The guy who laughs when someone falls in public, or the one who doesn’t? So we have...
A Memo Concerning: Falling in Public and Assholery.
This past Thanksgiving I was waiting in an airport terminal burping up the 9 dollar Cadillac Margarita I had slammed at the bar minutes before, letting my eyes scan across the scene for weirdos and boobjobs (same thing?), keeping close guard of my luggage from suspicious brown people attempting to brush anthrax on my backpack, when a flustered lady in testicle smasher heels came sprinting through the masses. Behind her whirred the wheels of her luggage, the same roller luggage used by flight attendants, self-important businessmen, and the pagan splinter cell of the Knights Templar. The furious clatter of her sprint immediately caught the eyes of the rest of us patiently waiting for our cattle call for the simple fact that no boarding calls had recently been made, much less any last minute warnings. What was her hurry? Then, as if the mighty hand of Karma came sweeping across us mere mortals, this broad tripped her self on her luggage and was sent spilling through the air, hair waving like the star-spangled banner before fantastically falling on her out stretched wrists and then face. I completely lost it. From the dirty looks coming from the sea of strangers around me I suddenly realized nobody appreciated this moment as much as I did. It was either that or the issue of blood coming down her chin that allowed everyone else to keep their composure.
Maybe I can blame my reaction on the dashing way I had earlier asked my waitress to make my margarita extra special.
“You want another one honey?”
“No m’am, I probably shouldn’t. I have another one of these I might start flirting with you a whole lot more.”
“Oh baby, that’s not the cocktail that’s doin that to yah.”
She looked like a combination of Lindsay Lohan after about ten more years of coke benders and Mr. Burns embalmed in vinegar. Her hair could have housed three generations of chinchilla breeding.
Someone helping the fallen terminal angel back up on her feet shot a nasty look at my still silently chuckling grin and I wished that I could explain to them what the pickled Burns had done to me earlier. But I doubt they would have wanted to hear that. Asshole.
Everyday I am amazed at the human ability to not seize the opportunity to laugh. To me there is no bigger asshole than someone oblivious to life’s comedy. A few weeks ago I told a dear friend that seeing her slip while crossing a tile lobby would make my day. She immediately grew offended. For about point niner of one second I tried to explain myself but quickly realized that simply shrugging my shoulders and pleading “C’mon!” would be a better response. That’s the only way I know how to respond to Assholery (DISCLAIMER: I’m not saying that this friend is an asshole, just that at this brief moment in time she experimented with Assholery).
Even now there is a photo still permanently ingrained in my mind. The airport terminal sprinter is suspended in mid air. Hair spreads across the air above her in elegant fashion, as if blown by some distant mystical wind. Across her face is an eruption of surprise, fear, vulnerability and anger, all topped off with a hint of self-disappointment. Both hands extend in front of her desperately in Joe DiMaggio-sliding-into-home-plate fashion. Her luggage is stuck in motion moving away from the back of one of her legs. Behind her someone sits in a chair with eyes wide open and mouth in a perfect O shape. Next to this person is someone immediately concerned, already on their way to help the falling angel and maybe they predicted the fall—like a parent reaches for a cup before their child knocks it off the table. In the foreground to the left of the angel someone else has half turned around with curious eyes waiting to look back and see what that sound was. They are mid stride in the same direction. There they all are, stuck forever in this frozen composition.
Behind the edges of this photo there am I, enjoying the symphony of it all, eyes a-glaze, awe-struck like an 8 year old at their first IMAX movie experience.
A Memo Concerning: Falling in Public and Assholery.
This past Thanksgiving I was waiting in an airport terminal burping up the 9 dollar Cadillac Margarita I had slammed at the bar minutes before, letting my eyes scan across the scene for weirdos and boobjobs (same thing?), keeping close guard of my luggage from suspicious brown people attempting to brush anthrax on my backpack, when a flustered lady in testicle smasher heels came sprinting through the masses. Behind her whirred the wheels of her luggage, the same roller luggage used by flight attendants, self-important businessmen, and the pagan splinter cell of the Knights Templar. The furious clatter of her sprint immediately caught the eyes of the rest of us patiently waiting for our cattle call for the simple fact that no boarding calls had recently been made, much less any last minute warnings. What was her hurry? Then, as if the mighty hand of Karma came sweeping across us mere mortals, this broad tripped her self on her luggage and was sent spilling through the air, hair waving like the star-spangled banner before fantastically falling on her out stretched wrists and then face. I completely lost it. From the dirty looks coming from the sea of strangers around me I suddenly realized nobody appreciated this moment as much as I did. It was either that or the issue of blood coming down her chin that allowed everyone else to keep their composure.
Maybe I can blame my reaction on the dashing way I had earlier asked my waitress to make my margarita extra special.
“You want another one honey?”
“No m’am, I probably shouldn’t. I have another one of these I might start flirting with you a whole lot more.”
“Oh baby, that’s not the cocktail that’s doin that to yah.”
She looked like a combination of Lindsay Lohan after about ten more years of coke benders and Mr. Burns embalmed in vinegar. Her hair could have housed three generations of chinchilla breeding.
Someone helping the fallen terminal angel back up on her feet shot a nasty look at my still silently chuckling grin and I wished that I could explain to them what the pickled Burns had done to me earlier. But I doubt they would have wanted to hear that. Asshole.
Everyday I am amazed at the human ability to not seize the opportunity to laugh. To me there is no bigger asshole than someone oblivious to life’s comedy. A few weeks ago I told a dear friend that seeing her slip while crossing a tile lobby would make my day. She immediately grew offended. For about point niner of one second I tried to explain myself but quickly realized that simply shrugging my shoulders and pleading “C’mon!” would be a better response. That’s the only way I know how to respond to Assholery (DISCLAIMER: I’m not saying that this friend is an asshole, just that at this brief moment in time she experimented with Assholery).
Even now there is a photo still permanently ingrained in my mind. The airport terminal sprinter is suspended in mid air. Hair spreads across the air above her in elegant fashion, as if blown by some distant mystical wind. Across her face is an eruption of surprise, fear, vulnerability and anger, all topped off with a hint of self-disappointment. Both hands extend in front of her desperately in Joe DiMaggio-sliding-into-home-plate fashion. Her luggage is stuck in motion moving away from the back of one of her legs. Behind her someone sits in a chair with eyes wide open and mouth in a perfect O shape. Next to this person is someone immediately concerned, already on their way to help the falling angel and maybe they predicted the fall—like a parent reaches for a cup before their child knocks it off the table. In the foreground to the left of the angel someone else has half turned around with curious eyes waiting to look back and see what that sound was. They are mid stride in the same direction. There they all are, stuck forever in this frozen composition.
Behind the edges of this photo there am I, enjoying the symphony of it all, eyes a-glaze, awe-struck like an 8 year old at their first IMAX movie experience.
A Memo Concerning: Vengeful Jews, Carl Winslow, and the Ford Focus.
At work several days ago I watched a kid casually, but with vicious intention, spit from an elevated position down on to some younger, unsuspecting children. In those precious moments right before I fall asleep, in times when I make an effort to think about nothing, I can still perfectly see his snot mixed saliva floating through the air, and although I’m not proud of it the image still causes me to laugh uncontrollably. And so we have A Memo Concerning: Vengeful Jews, Carl Winslow, and the Ford Focus.
When I was little my brother and I used to play a game that always ended up with me either getting my ass kicked or swinging a haymaker at his balls. Ok, maybe both happened every time. The game began with us standing directly across from each other. The objective? To see how close we could get to spitting on each other without actually doing it. The bigger the lougee the more points you got. It was basically the Israeli-Palestinian conflict minus the BBC and Stephen Spielberg. But we never kept score. He and I both preferred face-blasting spit on to each other rather than something as abstract as a “score.” I mean who counts anything when they are wiping brain dooky off of their face cheek. Much like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict I'm forced to ask what kind of jackasses would create an environment where ass kicking would inevitably happen? I suppose I could blame my parents, but I blame them for everything from my girlish figure to my penchant for pissing off people who love me. But why would I play you ask? I remember my brother easily talking me into playing the game once he noticed I was sick of turning tree branches into swords and beating the shit out of my mom’s tomato plants. Minutes later I’d miss the ooze of tomato juice as he’d smile and tell me he was going to spit first. I can still perfectly see his snot mixed saliva floating through the air and onto some younger, unsuspecting…me.
I have issues, I perfectly understand that. Most people I encounter pick up on this rather quickly. So it should be no surprise that the other day I was driving through a rare and precious Southern California drizzle and began hallucinating with several bumper stickers in front of me. A stick figure family began dancing like a band of gypsies about the back window of an Explorer while a Christian fish started swimming back and forth across a bumper nashing its suddenly appearing teeth. Letters began to dance about in Sesame Street “Today’s show is brought to you by the letter…” fashion. This obviously led to the wheels of a purple Ford Focus turning horizontal like some sort of hovercraft and then flying up and over the flatbed truck in front of it at cosmic speeds—
Ok, I understand this is pretty weird. But you know what’s weird?
Siblings. Siblings are a weird fucking thing. While I know my brother loves me, I have to always wonder if there was one event in our lives that triggered the conflicts and bullshit, contentious games that would inevitably start between us. There has to be one long lost incident that started it all. Right? Everything has a route cause. Like the first event that made the Hindu and Muslim salty on each other. For them I’d like to think it was about hairstyles, fat bellies, face paint and the naked boobie. And what made the Catholic get Inquisitive on the Jew? Maybe someone realized that bitter herb is bitter because nobody likes it so don't ask people to eat it, and conversely that walking on water isn’t as easy as it looks—I mean that hippie could have at least warned us and told us to rock our swimsuit in case we fucked up in the process.
This is the part where I write some naive, idealistic, and softbatch diatribe about how my brother and I found a way to get along so why can’t everybody else in the world. But the truth is I shit purple more often than I talk to my brother and in the rare occasion that we spend more than three days together we both get close to stabbing each other to death with spoons and toothpicks. But I think about Karl Winslow. I think about his patience for Steve Urkell and know that it stems from the fact that they share so many memories with each other. It all becomes very simple at that point. At the end of the day I may swing a haymaker at my brother’s balls but I’m scared shitless of the day when there is no ball-sack to box. The Ford Focus has landed. The Ford Focus has landed.
When I was little my brother and I used to play a game that always ended up with me either getting my ass kicked or swinging a haymaker at his balls. Ok, maybe both happened every time. The game began with us standing directly across from each other. The objective? To see how close we could get to spitting on each other without actually doing it. The bigger the lougee the more points you got. It was basically the Israeli-Palestinian conflict minus the BBC and Stephen Spielberg. But we never kept score. He and I both preferred face-blasting spit on to each other rather than something as abstract as a “score.” I mean who counts anything when they are wiping brain dooky off of their face cheek. Much like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict I'm forced to ask what kind of jackasses would create an environment where ass kicking would inevitably happen? I suppose I could blame my parents, but I blame them for everything from my girlish figure to my penchant for pissing off people who love me. But why would I play you ask? I remember my brother easily talking me into playing the game once he noticed I was sick of turning tree branches into swords and beating the shit out of my mom’s tomato plants. Minutes later I’d miss the ooze of tomato juice as he’d smile and tell me he was going to spit first. I can still perfectly see his snot mixed saliva floating through the air and onto some younger, unsuspecting…me.
I have issues, I perfectly understand that. Most people I encounter pick up on this rather quickly. So it should be no surprise that the other day I was driving through a rare and precious Southern California drizzle and began hallucinating with several bumper stickers in front of me. A stick figure family began dancing like a band of gypsies about the back window of an Explorer while a Christian fish started swimming back and forth across a bumper nashing its suddenly appearing teeth. Letters began to dance about in Sesame Street “Today’s show is brought to you by the letter…” fashion. This obviously led to the wheels of a purple Ford Focus turning horizontal like some sort of hovercraft and then flying up and over the flatbed truck in front of it at cosmic speeds—
Ok, I understand this is pretty weird. But you know what’s weird?
Siblings. Siblings are a weird fucking thing. While I know my brother loves me, I have to always wonder if there was one event in our lives that triggered the conflicts and bullshit, contentious games that would inevitably start between us. There has to be one long lost incident that started it all. Right? Everything has a route cause. Like the first event that made the Hindu and Muslim salty on each other. For them I’d like to think it was about hairstyles, fat bellies, face paint and the naked boobie. And what made the Catholic get Inquisitive on the Jew? Maybe someone realized that bitter herb is bitter because nobody likes it so don't ask people to eat it, and conversely that walking on water isn’t as easy as it looks—I mean that hippie could have at least warned us and told us to rock our swimsuit in case we fucked up in the process.
This is the part where I write some naive, idealistic, and softbatch diatribe about how my brother and I found a way to get along so why can’t everybody else in the world. But the truth is I shit purple more often than I talk to my brother and in the rare occasion that we spend more than three days together we both get close to stabbing each other to death with spoons and toothpicks. But I think about Karl Winslow. I think about his patience for Steve Urkell and know that it stems from the fact that they share so many memories with each other. It all becomes very simple at that point. At the end of the day I may swing a haymaker at my brother’s balls but I’m scared shitless of the day when there is no ball-sack to box. The Ford Focus has landed. The Ford Focus has landed.
A Memo Concerning: Nancy Drew, Weiners, and SuperSoakers.
So today I was once again possessed by the keen desire to storm into a Wells Fargo Bank wielding Super Soaker 3000’s with aims to assault every banker with geysers of my aqua-fury. Now while this desire is usually a result of catching ACDC over the FM radio at just the right attitude, today it wasn’t and so it is noteworthy. I suppose the root of this desire extends back to habits from my youth-- the penchant for walking into banks with my mother, squirt gun tucked into my elastic waistband jeans, feeling like I was about to take all the money up in that bitch even with the leaky squirt gun making it look like I had just pissed myself.
I used to be deathly afraid of the dark, a firm believer in ghosts, monsters and ne’er-do-wellers. This is why I have to question where my childhood courage came from, the shameless and bold behavior. Where did I find the strength to cut my bangs the night before school pictures? How did I smile with the bizarre combination of oversized adult teeth and soon-to-be-loose baby teeth stacked in my mouth like a drunken game of Boggle? Why did I feel no shame when sliding my foot along Jessica Chesborough’s ankle during SSR no matter how many times she moved it away from me? I remember a series of dialogue one young Halloween:
Degenerate Child: “Who did that skeleton make-up for you?”
Me: “My Mom.”
Degenerate Child: “Well she did it like a pig.”
Me: “Well at least my mom didn’t make my belly like one.”
Where did this come from? Yes it is true, I no longer sleep with a Mag-lite flashlight under my pillow ready to simultaneously illuminate the undead and beat the crap out of them, and yet I still don’t feel like I have the same amount of courage as I did as wee youngster. When I think about this I come to very bizarre conclusions/actions. This is why it is no surprise that even recently I have found myself getting a lightening bolt nail polished onto both of my big toes from elderly, former prostitute, Vietnamese women just before dusk in Santa Barbara. And as if that wasn’t bold enough, half of my mani/pedi-cure experience was preformed by a dude. What would Jessica Chesborough think about this?
Well, perhaps the best haircuts are the ones we give ourselves.
After reading recent quotations from Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad I am once again mystified by the bizarre human ability to convince ones self that anything is true. I think of the woman who feels she is more attractive with three eighths of an inch of makeup and a collagen treatment that leaves lips on the verge of explosion. I think of the dude cruising around in a bright yellow hummer h2 with thirty inch spinner rims who thinks his weiner is massive. I think of the senile old man walking into a supermarket convinced that this is where he used to live, his bed right in the middle of a paper towel display. I think of the emo teenager so casual with life before it has even begun, sucking down cigarettes as if it was the most bold act since casual sex, confused within confusion. And so I am scared, frightened, and yes even confused by the thought that I once was sure that something from beneath by bed would eat me.
Whenever I think that I have grown up I realize that there is no such thing. “Grown” signifies completion and this I know will always be far from true. But one day during SSR Jessica Chesborough sneezed in violent, Mt. St. Helens fashion all over her copy of a Nancy Drew meets The Hardy Boys epic. Her snot/lava flow dribbled down to her upper lip and she quickly attempted to cover it with her already tainted book. I never could have imagined that the answer to all my lustful childhood prayers could be answered in one custard snot rocket. I can still remember the softness of Jessica Chesborough’s lips when I kissed her underneath the swirly slide on the playground days later, the sweetness of it all as I later licked my lips, and her subsequent willingness to fully engage in footsy for the rest of our elementary school experience. Today I think about this episode and I think I can wait things out. Who knows where we will next find our courage?
And so we have A Memo Concerning: Nancy Drew, Weiners, and SuperSoakers.
I used to be deathly afraid of the dark, a firm believer in ghosts, monsters and ne’er-do-wellers. This is why I have to question where my childhood courage came from, the shameless and bold behavior. Where did I find the strength to cut my bangs the night before school pictures? How did I smile with the bizarre combination of oversized adult teeth and soon-to-be-loose baby teeth stacked in my mouth like a drunken game of Boggle? Why did I feel no shame when sliding my foot along Jessica Chesborough’s ankle during SSR no matter how many times she moved it away from me? I remember a series of dialogue one young Halloween:
Degenerate Child: “Who did that skeleton make-up for you?”
Me: “My Mom.”
Degenerate Child: “Well she did it like a pig.”
Me: “Well at least my mom didn’t make my belly like one.”
Where did this come from? Yes it is true, I no longer sleep with a Mag-lite flashlight under my pillow ready to simultaneously illuminate the undead and beat the crap out of them, and yet I still don’t feel like I have the same amount of courage as I did as wee youngster. When I think about this I come to very bizarre conclusions/actions. This is why it is no surprise that even recently I have found myself getting a lightening bolt nail polished onto both of my big toes from elderly, former prostitute, Vietnamese women just before dusk in Santa Barbara. And as if that wasn’t bold enough, half of my mani/pedi-cure experience was preformed by a dude. What would Jessica Chesborough think about this?
Well, perhaps the best haircuts are the ones we give ourselves.
After reading recent quotations from Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad I am once again mystified by the bizarre human ability to convince ones self that anything is true. I think of the woman who feels she is more attractive with three eighths of an inch of makeup and a collagen treatment that leaves lips on the verge of explosion. I think of the dude cruising around in a bright yellow hummer h2 with thirty inch spinner rims who thinks his weiner is massive. I think of the senile old man walking into a supermarket convinced that this is where he used to live, his bed right in the middle of a paper towel display. I think of the emo teenager so casual with life before it has even begun, sucking down cigarettes as if it was the most bold act since casual sex, confused within confusion. And so I am scared, frightened, and yes even confused by the thought that I once was sure that something from beneath by bed would eat me.
Whenever I think that I have grown up I realize that there is no such thing. “Grown” signifies completion and this I know will always be far from true. But one day during SSR Jessica Chesborough sneezed in violent, Mt. St. Helens fashion all over her copy of a Nancy Drew meets The Hardy Boys epic. Her snot/lava flow dribbled down to her upper lip and she quickly attempted to cover it with her already tainted book. I never could have imagined that the answer to all my lustful childhood prayers could be answered in one custard snot rocket. I can still remember the softness of Jessica Chesborough’s lips when I kissed her underneath the swirly slide on the playground days later, the sweetness of it all as I later licked my lips, and her subsequent willingness to fully engage in footsy for the rest of our elementary school experience. Today I think about this episode and I think I can wait things out. Who knows where we will next find our courage?
And so we have A Memo Concerning: Nancy Drew, Weiners, and SuperSoakers.
A Memo Concerning: Avril Shits, Subaru Submarines, and Time.
Well I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to stop apologizing for the time gaps between these memos. While the complaints for my lack of consistency are flattering it has become painfully obvious that your requests have a motivation power rating of shitballs. Besides, it has always been my goal to not suck at anything I do. Call it pride, call it OCD, call it fear, call it pretension, call it precociousness, call it my own insecurity, call it shut the hell up. The fact is I’ve learned some things in the past couple of months and now I’m ready to write about them.
For those of you who may or may not know a couple of months ago I almost died in a bizarre and cinematic car accident. It took me only a matter of hours to realize that it was the worst, the best, and most important event of my life to date. I’d like to think that it has changed me, but then again I have never been settled long enough to feel that I have ever stopped changing. It is noteworthy because the result, as many of you have come to expect, has given fruit to some pretty kick ass realizations. So, without further adieu, A MEMO CONCERNING: Avril Shits, Subaru Submarines, and Time.
A couple of weeks ago I waited patiently behind an undulating, portly woman as she made her way up a flight of stairs at my work. By patiently waiting I mean cursing her undisciplined, fat curdled ass as it made its way up to my destination with the same amount of determination as a bottle of molasses fighting the forces of gravity. I would have passed her if it wasn’t for fear of her random, vicious grabs for the handrails. They landed so desperately that I was sure if I didn’t time my move past her perfectly her hands would permanently plant me into the walls housing the staircase. They call my patience Time.
I contrast this moment with another trip up these same stairs but this time following an elderly couple. He flirtatiously slides his hand across her geriatric ass while pretending to stretch out his arms. She understands his true intention and smiles, bringing herself closer to him. He leans in and tries to hold her hand, she moves away from him and laughs, the wrinkles on her cheeks signifying the years. They finally reach the top of the stairs and leave me. I feel that there is an entire lifetime of love within a span of seconds.
I remember the thud of my Subaru slamming the water, the jolt and then soft fall beneath the surface. The water filling my shoes. At first my body couldn’t move fast enough to match the panic. Flailing arms and rapid breath were silenced only by the thought that these could be my final thoughts. And then I was assaulted with a lifetime of thoughts in a matter of seconds. The places I had dreamed about but had not yet been to. Goals. The people I wanted to laugh with again. Things I wanted to say to faces I have never seen before. Smiles that I had held back. The conversations that would follow. I heard the steady breath of my childhood dog Cid next to my bed on the night that I realized my parents were getting divorced. What would people say about my absence. Would I hurt them? The feeling of my siblings crammed next to me on a couch until there was no me, only the congruent feeling of our self, diverse but not ready to be apart. This all came in a matter of seconds; call it fear, call it pride, call it my insecurity, but I wanted more. I did not realize this until that first breath when I reached the surface again.
But what was this all about? What was its worth? Can it be wasted?
I have realized that taking really intense shits whilst listening to Avril Levigne power ballads may be the most pleasing body-music-body-spirit experiences known to man. I couldn’t appreciate this until staring desperately at a tile floor with a puckered, germ fearing ass as it tried to create an exorcism on a frequently, and recently, usurped thrown. There is something about Avril’s scream that loosens that which desperately clings to the inside of me. She is audio-fiber, musicenema. As someone that is generally an intense anti-fan of her music I feel that this is proof that there is nothing in this world that does not hold some kind of worth.
I have realized that there is a song attached to every girl that I have ever felt myself falling for. A lot of them are shitty pop ballads that would make you want to cram a rhino in your ears in leu of a que-tip. I say “falling for” because I don’t think I have ever really been in love. When people talk about love I feel like that college freshman who wonders what second base is like while attending Human Sexuality 101: I smile and nod my head but can only question if that was what I did that one time when it felt kinda weird. Even still, the songs remain. They used to torture me, remind me of how I had tried to protect myself and then her smile that made me drop my guard and make the same mistakes all over again. But I’ve gotten to a point where I stop cringing at the sound of them and started to realize how sweet it is to have those feelings in the first place. I’ve hurt many and been hurt enough to realize there is no use in doing either. Be honest, be true; do not hope for, or hide, just allow. When I listen to those songs I can go back to that first feeling of slipping into something really fucking rad, the risk, the boldness of it all; that is how I can I love these songs. So now instead of letting them consume me I can simply place them in that giant filing cabinet that time affords me.
Time moves. It moves and so I have the courage to change the dial on the radio, not knowing who or what will touch me, where the next fall will be, the next memory. These days maybe the memories don’t come back to me, maybe they just give me something to step up on.
So that is where I am right now. I have realized that time, in its steady, unforgiving progression, is the only salvation we have. As much as I want to slow it down, to go back, to undo the mistakes I have made, it is only in the changing of days that I can find solace. It charges forward whether we want it to or not because that is the only answer to everything we need: progression. It is only when we reach our end that yesterday finally catches us. When that day finally comes for me I hope to stand on top of my past, let go, and feel it hold me afloat, peacefully, upon the surface.
For those of you who may or may not know a couple of months ago I almost died in a bizarre and cinematic car accident. It took me only a matter of hours to realize that it was the worst, the best, and most important event of my life to date. I’d like to think that it has changed me, but then again I have never been settled long enough to feel that I have ever stopped changing. It is noteworthy because the result, as many of you have come to expect, has given fruit to some pretty kick ass realizations. So, without further adieu, A MEMO CONCERNING: Avril Shits, Subaru Submarines, and Time.
A couple of weeks ago I waited patiently behind an undulating, portly woman as she made her way up a flight of stairs at my work. By patiently waiting I mean cursing her undisciplined, fat curdled ass as it made its way up to my destination with the same amount of determination as a bottle of molasses fighting the forces of gravity. I would have passed her if it wasn’t for fear of her random, vicious grabs for the handrails. They landed so desperately that I was sure if I didn’t time my move past her perfectly her hands would permanently plant me into the walls housing the staircase. They call my patience Time.
I contrast this moment with another trip up these same stairs but this time following an elderly couple. He flirtatiously slides his hand across her geriatric ass while pretending to stretch out his arms. She understands his true intention and smiles, bringing herself closer to him. He leans in and tries to hold her hand, she moves away from him and laughs, the wrinkles on her cheeks signifying the years. They finally reach the top of the stairs and leave me. I feel that there is an entire lifetime of love within a span of seconds.
I remember the thud of my Subaru slamming the water, the jolt and then soft fall beneath the surface. The water filling my shoes. At first my body couldn’t move fast enough to match the panic. Flailing arms and rapid breath were silenced only by the thought that these could be my final thoughts. And then I was assaulted with a lifetime of thoughts in a matter of seconds. The places I had dreamed about but had not yet been to. Goals. The people I wanted to laugh with again. Things I wanted to say to faces I have never seen before. Smiles that I had held back. The conversations that would follow. I heard the steady breath of my childhood dog Cid next to my bed on the night that I realized my parents were getting divorced. What would people say about my absence. Would I hurt them? The feeling of my siblings crammed next to me on a couch until there was no me, only the congruent feeling of our self, diverse but not ready to be apart. This all came in a matter of seconds; call it fear, call it pride, call it my insecurity, but I wanted more. I did not realize this until that first breath when I reached the surface again.
But what was this all about? What was its worth? Can it be wasted?
I have realized that taking really intense shits whilst listening to Avril Levigne power ballads may be the most pleasing body-music-body-spirit experiences known to man. I couldn’t appreciate this until staring desperately at a tile floor with a puckered, germ fearing ass as it tried to create an exorcism on a frequently, and recently, usurped thrown. There is something about Avril’s scream that loosens that which desperately clings to the inside of me. She is audio-fiber, musicenema. As someone that is generally an intense anti-fan of her music I feel that this is proof that there is nothing in this world that does not hold some kind of worth.
I have realized that there is a song attached to every girl that I have ever felt myself falling for. A lot of them are shitty pop ballads that would make you want to cram a rhino in your ears in leu of a que-tip. I say “falling for” because I don’t think I have ever really been in love. When people talk about love I feel like that college freshman who wonders what second base is like while attending Human Sexuality 101: I smile and nod my head but can only question if that was what I did that one time when it felt kinda weird. Even still, the songs remain. They used to torture me, remind me of how I had tried to protect myself and then her smile that made me drop my guard and make the same mistakes all over again. But I’ve gotten to a point where I stop cringing at the sound of them and started to realize how sweet it is to have those feelings in the first place. I’ve hurt many and been hurt enough to realize there is no use in doing either. Be honest, be true; do not hope for, or hide, just allow. When I listen to those songs I can go back to that first feeling of slipping into something really fucking rad, the risk, the boldness of it all; that is how I can I love these songs. So now instead of letting them consume me I can simply place them in that giant filing cabinet that time affords me.
Time moves. It moves and so I have the courage to change the dial on the radio, not knowing who or what will touch me, where the next fall will be, the next memory. These days maybe the memories don’t come back to me, maybe they just give me something to step up on.
So that is where I am right now. I have realized that time, in its steady, unforgiving progression, is the only salvation we have. As much as I want to slow it down, to go back, to undo the mistakes I have made, it is only in the changing of days that I can find solace. It charges forward whether we want it to or not because that is the only answer to everything we need: progression. It is only when we reach our end that yesterday finally catches us. When that day finally comes for me I hope to stand on top of my past, let go, and feel it hold me afloat, peacefully, upon the surface.
A Memo Concerning: Stunna Shades, Mutant Ninjas, and Dick Cheney
A lot of you guys have called me out pretty hard on the fact that I haven't shared one of these in a while. I hope these same people aren't also fasting or refusing to engage in coitus until Sisqo, AKA "The Dragon," comes out with another radical hit single like "The Thong Song." But in case you were, without further adieu...
A Memo Concerning:Stunna Shades, Mutant Ninjas, and Dick Cheney
Today while punching myself in the penis, I mean filling up the gas tank, a brand new black Jetta pulled up to the pump across from me. I immediately knew this was trouble as my manners, patience and shame had been systematically dismantled while watching money being sucked out of my bank account. Just before the Jetta pulled up I had become dangerously entranced in the ever increasing flurry of numbers on the pump until within their movement I could easily see Dick Cheney dancing around in the fantasy sequence from "Happy Gilmore." Dick is wearing a satin leisure suit and dancing like a leprechaun on top of the white piano until he notices that I am watching him, lets off a snarl, then slowly lifts up a shotgun and sprays Keith Richard's, who happens to be playing the piano, across the face and chest. That is about when the Jetta pulled up.
She and her companion were riding in Daddy's Sweet 16 gift wearing Stunna Shades and blasting the radio. The driver hopped out and pranced to the pump and it was at this time that I began wondering if they were on their way to a Willy Wonka festival. I mean why else would they be wearing those ridiculous sunglasses? But I'm pretty sure Willy Wonka festivals are about as common as Berenstein Bear festivals (basically not nearly enough) so I was forced to conclude that these two girls were just wildly unattractive. Is there any other reason for a female to wear sunglasses that cover half of their face? How did this become acceptable? From now on I'm gonna wear a refrigerator box to cover the fact that I'm almost 24 years old and weigh 140lbs.
Anyways...tragically at this point that song "Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab for Emo McSlitWrists came on the radio and as if the song hadn't been in steady rotation for the past nine months these two broadulars erupted in excitement. The one still in Daddy's car even went as far as to scream "OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG!"
And I was forced to respond, "OH MY GOD, ME TOOOOOO!" while McCauley Caulkening my cheeks.
The girl in the car quickly snapped her head towards me and slid her shitty eyewear to the edge of her nose to reveal, as predicted, an acne infested forehead/brow. She looked at me like I had three noses and two gnome sized Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles dancing on my shoulders (Michealanglo on right, Raphael on left--Go ninja! Go ninja!). I'm sure you have all gotten this look before, right? Well in this situation the look forced me to give both girls two thumbs down and belt out the most savage "BOOOOOO!" I have ever delivered. I waited for a response --didn't really happen, stepped into my car and drove away softly singing to myself "Dumps like a truck, truck, truck, thighs like what, what, what. Oooooh baby do it agaaaain!" Why? I don't really know. Sisqo is “The Dragon,” why don’t you ask him.
Now I write all this fully aware that I may sound like Andy Rooney sitting behind a typewriter writing complaint letters to Jesus for not asking if he wanted to be saved or not and failing to be punctual with "The Coming." But these memos are firmly dedicated to the absurd and the fact is, there is no use lying to the world. Leave the Stunna Shades at home. Don't hide. This world is complicated enough without unnecessary deception. The fundamental fact remains that you can't travel to some magical place where soul meets body, you live in that place every single day. Stop wondering if the grass is greener somewhere else while letting your dog shit on your lawn. Moving on then...
A Memo Concerning BBQ Tongs, Interventions, and Tag Body Spray
Let me preface the following memo by saying that if you feel I am targeting you specifically, or you believe I am trying to shield a private intervention behind the veil of a public declaration then please stop thinking about me and my involvement in this tragedy because the problem is not me it is clearly you. Simply trust that I have your best intentions in mind, intentions which can perfectly disguise my own pursuit of happiness and quest for the destruction of the everyday absurd. I'm sure there is a simpler way to express the sentiment of this preface, but I have never been one for brevity. But, if I was I'd say: If you think this is about you, then it is, and even more so than the individuals who this is about but who don't realize it. Tolerant.
The topic at hand here is Tag Body Spray. I'm sure you are all familiar with the product and its ridiculous TV ads. They begin with an awkward washed-up 30 year old actor trying to play the roll of pubescent boy. He walks like he has just wiped his ass with sand paper then had his nipple hair plucked with a pair of BBQ tongs, so pretty much like no warm blooded homo-sapien ever walks. It is soon discovered that our poor young proTAGanist is being ignored by the mongolian hoard of "OC" casting-call rejects and "Next" contestants that surround him.
(I am tempted to go on a tangent about mongolian hoards like these and the paradox that is a group of classless females struggling their hardest to make their appearance stand out from each other, but whose collective struggle tragically makes them all predictable and ignorable, and who then bizarrely find it possible to ignore a "loser" who behaves like an alien. But going on that tangent would make babies eat their own feces so I wont.)
So what does our proTagonist do in order to gain favor of a group of boring sluts who have no morals and low self-esteem? He pulls out a can with "Am I deodorant or am I cologne?" identity issues and sprays it all over himself. Miraculously this triggers an even further drop in self-esteem for the mongolian hoard of American Eagle dressed sluts as they proceed to attack our proTagonist in lustful grabs and dry humps. At this point I usually blackout completely only to come to at the conclusion of the commercial as we see the can of deodo-logne pump to the horrendously fake moans of a female (Dude, the last thing I want to thing I want to hear when thinking about courting females are fake orgasms.) I mean at the end of the commercial they might as well call it It Will Get You Laid Spray.What happened to subtlety? What happened to Game and class? I’m sorry, but if you use this product I’m forced to conclude that you have given up on all three of these elements of courtship and finagling and prefer to feast on what I like to call facade sluts. Do you use the product because you can relate to the proTagonist? Are you really trying to pull chicks who want to get scandy with you because you smell like chemicals? Are you desperate enough to believe in the wildly obvious– and false-- premise of its advertising? Have things grown that hopeless? Of course they haven’t so why do you choose to use a product that openly questions your intelligence, game, class and ability to pull chicks? FUCK YOU TAG, WHO SAID WE NEEDED YOU?
The bottom line is, if you use Tag chances are you are trying way too hard and sacrificing your dignity in doing so. Listen I’m no Don Juan or Errol Flynn and I’ll never claim to be. When I get laid and friends ask how I pulled it off seldom do I have a logical answer which points to anything that I “did.” Maybe I’m just passive when it comes to naked time and I’m pretty sure my sex life is just the product of blind luck. I don’t really know how it works I just know that it happens and when it does its rad. I do know one thing– there is no chick in the world worth numbing your intelligence, sacrificing your dignity, or forgetting your class for. To sum it all up: No cool chick digs tag and I only let cool chicks do me.
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